There's an Awful Lot of Breathing Room, But I Can Hardly Move
by nubianamy
Summary: Donutverse #12, concurrent with Fingers of Your Fire. A chance encounter at a Columbus coffeehouse give both Finn and Blaine a chance to reimagine themselves and forge an unexpected connection. Warnings for Dom/sub, discipline, drug use, angst and excessive songfic. Cowritten with knittycat99.
1. Chapter 1

_(Author's note: For those of you who are experiencing deja vu, yes, the first two chapters of this story originally appeared in the Donutverse story Fingers of Your Fire, as the Coffeehouse interludes. We wrote this complete story last winter, and had thought to include one chapter between episodes in FoYF, but it became evident that the beauty of Finn and Blaine was being lost in the convoluted storyline and multiple characters of the Donutverse. So we decided to pull the interludes from FoYF and just post the whole Coffeehouse story in its entirety. This is a completed story, with eleven chapters. We'll post a chapter every day or two this week._

_The title is from a line of the Matchbox 20 song If You're Gone._

_Irene is loosely based on a familiar African-American actress who first made an appearance on Glee in Season 3... the funny thing is, I started writing her before I knew she would play Carmen on the show. So now Carmen has a twin sister. _

_There is a lot of music in this story, and you can listen to all of it on the FoYF Youtube playlist at: www. youtube playlist?list=PLC484A09C55722614_

_If you have not yet read Terrific, Radiant, Humble, you might consider reading that Blaine backstory first, before delving into the world of 16-year-old Blaine. _

_Blaine does not appear to meet Kurt on the show until next year, but in the Donutverse, Blaine and Kurt and Puck will encounter one another before that - although not until the summer 2010 story which follows this one._

_Warnings for polyamory, Dom/sub, discipline, drug use and angst. __Enjoy, and keep an open mind. -amy and knittycat)_

* * *

**Chapter One**

Blaine hated the turtlenecks they wore in the winter under their blazers at Dalton even more than he hated the blazers themselves. The ties weren't so bad; he'd finally gotten used to the ties at Catholic, but this turtleneck . . . there was no loosening it, and by the end of the day Blaine was sure he was being strangled. He couldn't wait to get off campus for the weekend, not only because it meant ditching his uniform. Getting off campus, down to Columbus with his dad and Thomas, meant forty-eight blissful hours of freedom.

There would be dinner, of course, and he had Boy Choir every Saturday afternoon, and there would also be plenty of time to browse the shelves at An Open Book. And there was the open mic at Java the Hut on Saturday night. Singing, just _singing_, where nobody knew him and nobody demanded anything _from_ him, was the most amazing feeling, and Blaine found that he craved it as much, if not more, than the cocaine Jeff brought for him after each of his own weekends at home.

He tucked his own clothes, not his uniform, into his overnight bag, hoping Jeff hadn't taken off already for his own weekend adventures. His supply was running short. Even though he knew he wouldn't really have an issue if he had to go a weekend without it, he'd rather not have to. It wasn't as though he were addicted or anything. It was simply... helpful.

Last night's dream hadn't helped, though. This time the boy had appeared in the parking lot outside the music building on a big, showy motorcycle. He'd revved the motor, taken off his helmet, and smiled at Blaine, proud and cocky. _You ready to go, baby?_ he'd said, holding out a second helmet. It had given Blaine a charge, to see the boy looking at _him_ like that. In his dream, Blaine had climbed right on behind him, his arms warm and snug around the boy's waist, feeling the vibration of the bike under his legs. Like most nights he dreamed about the boy from the club, he woke up hard - or, sometimes, sticky - and wanting something else, something he could barely comprehend, something achy and tingling and compelling. The coke lifted him out of the wanting a little, and made it easier to keep moving instead of drowning in it.

He wasn't new at Dalton anymore, but sometimes he still got called New Kid because there hadn't been anyone else new to supplant him. When this happened, Blaine just waved and tried to smile in a friendly way when boys shouted it at him as he trudged across the courtyard, pulling his coat tighter around his body, trying not to take it as a personal insult. He wished the boy would show up now and whisk him away on his motorcycle, so he wouldn't have to wait for Thomas to arrive to pick him up.

Even home didn't feel much like home anymore - not his dad's and Thomas' house in Columbus. He missed Santana, and Marisol, and his mother. He missed the familiar territory of his neighborhood and the library and Lima. It was like everything easy and safe in his life was slowly and inevitably being taken away from him.

He hunched his shoulders against the frozen January wind and tried to hang on to what warmth he still had inside.

* * *

Other times, though, things just fell into place. At those times, the most challenging aspects of Blaine's life slid past him as though he could do no wrong. This weekend, Thomas had been early to get him from school, and there'd been a still-steaming medium drip coffee in the cupholder. Blaine's dad decided not to bother cooking, which was always a blessing, and they ordered from Blaine's favorite Thai takeout place, with the best masaman curry and sticky rice with mangoes. He was already buzzing on caffeine from the Thai iced tea by the time he got to the open mic. Thomas and his dad had dropped him off at An Open Book on their way to a concert, with instructions to _wait at Java the Hut, we'll pick you up at 11_.

By the time he'd shrugged his coat off and set down his guitar case, he felt at home. Even already caffeinated, he didn't turn away the double-shot mocha that Irene, the owner and barista, slid across the counter to him. It had been a long, windy walk down from An Open Book.

"Thanks," he nodded, taking a sip and tossing a five into the tip jar.

"You know it's on the house for performers, Patrick," she said, with a raised eyebrow. "What's that all about?"

"What, I can't feel generous?" He grinned at the woman. She glared at him and shook her head, her dreadlocks swinging, but didn't comment.

He felt fearless, as he often did when he climbed the two steps to the little stage and began his sound check. Here, where Blaine didn't exist, where Patrick was the one performing, he could be all the things he'd always wanted to be. He could be free, for those three or four songs. Free to be gay without fear - free to be his imperfect self, to be all those things he was still learning about himself.

It had been several weeks now, and he was starting to see some familiar faces in the audience. It was kind of amazing, really. _I have fans?_ he thought, grinning at the girl with the oversized glasses and the space between her teeth, and the two boys who looked so much alike he figured they had to be twins. Blaine wished he had the courage to approach them afterward, even just to say hello, and thank them personally for coming, but trying to be Patrick off the stage was like trying to ice skate on pavement. It was just the wrong medium.

He noticed the two men in the back had returned. They were sitting close enough together to make Blaine think they must almost certainly be boyfriends. One was older, shorter, with a gorgeous smile and something of a paternal air about him; the other was tall, tall enough to stand out, and brown eyes that watched Blaine curiously from their table. He applauded every song and listened carefully. Blaine had the feeling he was really hearing what he was singing, not like most of the audience who were going about their own business, their own lives. It was almost as though the tall boy were actually here to listen to him sing. _Another fan?_ Blaine smiled to himself as he tuned his guitar. Perhaps. In any case, it was nice to know someone was paying attention.

Blaine adjusted the microphone stand and strummed through the chord progression for Kid Fears, working the fingering for the opening melody and smiling at the girl in the glasses when she blinked and nodded in recognition.

"Hey, everyone," he said, careful not to get too close to the microphone.

"Hi," the scattered audience chorused back.

"I'm Patrick, for any newbies in the house. For the rest of you, welcome back. It's nice to see some familiar faces." He let his gaze travel over the girl, over the look-alike boys, and felt it settle without his consent on the tall boy. _Not the older man_, he noted briefly, even though he could almost _feel_ the man's stare. No, the tall boy was the one who'd grabbed his attention the first time he'd seen him, with the man, and the handful of times he'd been here alone as well. It wasn't sexual attraction, though he figured the boy was handsome enough. It was like the boy was the magnet, and _Patrick_ was the chunk of iron ore, drawn toward him through space. He couldn't keep his eyes away. He wondered, as he closed his eyes for a moment, if _Blaine_ would feel the same way about the mystery boy from the club.

No matter. For his four songs, it was only ever Patrick on stage. Blaine would _never_ sing the kinds of soul-burning songs Patrick favored, the kinds of songs he knew people came to open mic to hear him sing. The songs that kept him whole and told everyone else that they weren't the only ones feeling the deep, dark things that nobody would talk about in the light of day.

"So," he hummed, "this is an oldie by one of my favorite bands. I know some of you will recognize this. Feel free to sing along, if you want, because the Girls are great for singing along."

_Pain from pearls-hey little girl-  
__How much have you grown?  
__Pain from pearls-hey little girl-  
__Flower for the ones you've known._

_Are you on fire,  
__From the years?  
__What would you give for your  
__Kid fears?_

Blaine could see the girl, mouthing the words silently, and, improbably, the boy in the back, looking like he'd been poleaxed but still singing.

_Secret staircase, running high,  
__You had a hiding place.  
__Secret staircase, running low,  
__But they all know, now you're inside._

_Are you on fire,  
__From the years?  
__What would you give for your  
__Kid fears?_

_Skipping stones, we know the price now,  
__Any sin will do.  
__How much further, if you can spin.  
__How much further, if you are smooth._

He wished that he had someone to sing it with him, to follow him with the harmony that Michael Stipe sang in the original version, but he took a chance as he launched into the end of the song, gesturing to the assembled crowd, and smiled when they picked up the line, softer and barely lilting under his melody.

_Are you on fire,  
__From the years?  
__What would you give for your  
__Kid fears?_

_Replace the rent with the stars above.  
__Replace the need with love.  
__Replace the anger with the tide.  
__Replace the ones, the ones, the ones, that you love._

_Are you on fire,  
__From the years?  
__What would you give for your  
__Kid fears?_

The applause was hearty, and Blaine (_Patrick_, he reminded himself) took a swig of mocha followed by a sip of water before settling himself with another chord progression.

"Apparently I'm feeling the angst tonight," he said, shaking a stray curl out of his face and picking out the start of One Song Glory. "This is from one of my favorite musicals. Well," he shrugged, cocking his head at the crowd, "I guess it's a _rock opera_ if we're being specific." That drew some light laughter, and he was suddenly at a loss for words, so he launched right into the song.

_One song  
__Glory  
__One song  
__Before I go  
__Glory  
__One song to leave behind  
__Find one song  
__One last refrain  
__Glory  
__From the pretty boy front man  
__Who wasted opportunity_

Patrick could sing the _hell_ out of this song. Never Blaine. Blaine had tried, time and time again, but he couldn't even choke out the first words, because _Blaine_ was a fucking mess. Patrick was cool enough to handle the implications of a song about a descent into addiction. _Blaine_ couldn't even admit that maybe he had a problem, because Andersons didn't _have_ problems. Especially not with drugs.

And now that it was looking like he'd be named lead soloist for the Warblers at their spring assembly, _Blaine_ felt exactly like nothing more than a pretty boy pretender. He had Crawford Country Day girls fawning over him, and half the Warbler council trying to set him up with one gay friend or another, and he'd heard the things people whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear them: _sex on a stick and sings like a dream_.

It was all just too fucking much, so _Patrick_ closed his eyes against Blaine, and kept going.

_One song  
__He had the world at his feet  
__Glory  
__In the eyes of a young girl  
__A young girl  
__Find glory  
__Beyond the cheap colored lights  
__One song  
__Before the sun sets  
__Glory - on another empty life  
__Time flies - time dies  
__Glory - One blaze of glory  
__One blaze of glory - glory_

He'd seen, in the extras on the movie dvd, that Adam Pascal had closed his eyes all the time when he sang, and that he'd had to train himself out of it. But Patrick thought it was sometimes the only way the song worked. There was just too much hurt there to be able to face anyone or anything.

_Find  
__Glory  
__In a song that rings true  
__Truth like a blazing fire  
__An eternal flame_

Patrick liked the songs that told the truth, that dug deep. That _hurt_. Blaine liked to hide in his music, which was all the more reason why _Blaine_ could never get up on stage like _this_. Patrick didn't need the sanctuary of song; instead, it was his catharsis. And god, it felt _good_.

_Find  
__One song  
__A song about love  
__Glory  
__From the soul of a young man  
__A young man  
__Find  
__The one song  
__Before the virus takes hold  
__Glory  
__Like a sunset  
__One song  
__To redeem this empty life  
__Time flies  
__And then - no need to endure anymore  
__Time dies  
__The door_

He let his hand drift up into the air as the last notes floated off his guitar, and when he opened his eyes he saw one of the brothers poking at his cheek with the heel of his hand. He was _crying_, and it took Patrick a few blinks of his own eyes to realize that _he_ was crying, too.

Dammit. He _had_ to pull himself together, so he turned his back on the room for a deep swallow of water and a surreptitious swipe at his cheeks with his own hand. When he turned back to the audience, he had his mask up again.

"This is a fun little song by a guy named Matt Nathanson. I hope you like it." He turned his best show smile on, and let thoughts of the boy from the club filter into his head. He almost couldn't help it at this point, because every time he heard the song, he thought of the boy, of the feel of him and the sound of his voice, and the fire in his eyes when he'd touched Blaine, pressed his hand around Blaine's throat.

_I miss the sound of your voice  
__And I miss the rush of your skin  
__And I miss the still of the silence  
__As you breathe out and I breathe in_

_If I could walk on water  
__If I could tell you what's next  
__Make you believe  
__Make you forget_

_So come on, get higher, loosen my lips  
__Faith and desire and the swing of your hips  
__Just pull me down hard and drown me in love  
_

_So come on, get higher, loosen my lips  
__Faith and desire and the swing of your hips  
__Just pull me down hard and drown me in love_

Love. God, the thing Blaine and Patrick both wanted exactly the same. Something that felt good and right, something to make him feel at home with himself, in a way he feared he never would.

_I miss the sound of your voice  
__The loudest thing in my head  
__And I ache to remember  
__All the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said_

_If I could walk on water  
__If I could tell you what's next  
__Make you believe  
__And make you forget_

Singing the song was like remembering what had happened that one night, so clearly. It was as though he had a little video of it in his head - because he replayed every night, from every possible angle. He knew he'd never forget it, even though at this point he wondered how much of what he remembered was true. He wondered if any of it was true. Maybe he just needed it to be.

Blaine would have fallen apart by now, would have lost it when he tried to sing _all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said, _but Patrick just dug in a little harder, made it a little grittier, a little more real. He could see his audience respond when that happened, as though they could somehow feel what was going on inside him. One of the brothers took the other's hand. The boy in the back set his coffee cup down, and even from here, Blaine could see it shaking.

_So come on, get higher, loosen my lips  
__Faith and desire and the swing of your hips  
__Just pull me down hard and drown me in love_

_I miss the pull of your heart  
__I taste the sparks on your tongue  
__And I see angels and devils and God  
__When you come on  
__Hold on, hold on  
__Hold on, hold on  
__Just hold me, love  
__Sing sha la la la  
__Sing sha la la la la_

_Come on, get higher, loosen my lips  
__Faith and desire and the swing of your hips  
__Just pull me down hard and drown me in love_

He'd heard the lyrics enough times now to realize what a frankly sexual song it was, full of all kinds of images of things he'd never done. He'd thought about them, though, and he guessed most of the people in the audience had, too. It was kind of a bold idea: that everybody around him, probably every person in the world, had thought about doing the things Matt Nathanson was talking about doing in this song. _Makes me wonder why people are so scared,_ he thought,_ if everybody's thinking about it. _But it was Patrick who wondered that. Not Blaine.

_So come on, get higher, loosen my lips  
__Faith and desire and the swing of your hips  
__Pull me down hard and drown me, drown me in love_

_(Come on get higher, loosen my lips)  
__It's all wrong  
__(Faith and desire and the swing of your hips)  
__It's all wrong  
__(Pull me down hard and drown me, drown me in love)  
__It's so right_

_Come on get higher  
__(Come on get higher, loosen my lips)  
__Come on and get higher  
__(Faith and desire and the swing of your hips)  
__Because everything works, love  
__Because everything works in your arms_

When he finished, he noticed that most of the audience was nodding along with their applause, and that the boy in the back was struggling _not_ to reach out and grab the arm of the man he was with. _There's a story there,_ he thought, but he would never even think of trying to guess what it was. Because as much as Andersons _didn't have problems,_ Andersons also _didn't pry into private affairs._

He wanted to jump right into his next song, but it was another kind of old one, and he wasn't sure how many people even listened to the Barenaked Ladies anymore, anyway.

"I think these lyrics say a lot about how we all are, every one of us. Just-" he snaked a hand through his hair and sighed, suddenly tired but still feeling like he had so much more to say. "Just listen."

_When I was born, they looked at me and said  
__what a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy.  
__And when you were born, they looked at you and said,  
__what a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl._

_We've got these chains that hang around our necks,  
__people want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath.  
__Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same,  
__when temptation calls, we just look away._

_This name is the hairshirt I wear,  
__and this hairshirt is woven from your brown hair.  
__This song is the cross that I bear,  
__bear it with me, bear with me, bear with me,  
__be with me tonight,  
__I know that it isn't right, but be with me tonight._

The first time he'd heard it, he thought immediately of Santana, always struggling to be _more_ than she was, so he played it for her. She'd put an arm around his shoulder, rested her head against his and said sadly, _oh, Blainers, you really don't get it. This is about you, too._

_I go to school, I write exams,  
__if I pass, if I fail, if I drop out,  
__does anyone give a damn?  
__And if they do, they'll soon forget 'cause it won't take much for me  
__to show my life ain't over yet._

_I wake up scared, I wake up strange.  
__I wake up wondering if anything in my life is ever going to change.  
__I wake up scared, I wake up strange  
__and everything around me stays the same._

He knew that feeling, like he was invisible. It was how he'd felt at Catholic, at the worst of things after the attack. How he still felt, some days, in the stifling air at Dalton. How he'd felt every single day since the night at the club, like something was burning and growing inside of him and nobody else could see it.

_I couldn't tell you that I was wrong,  
__chickened out, grabbed a pen and paper, sat down and I wrote this song.  
__I couldn't tell you that you were right,  
__so instead I looked in the mirror,  
__watched TV, laid awake all night._

_We've got these chains, hang 'round our necks,  
__people want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath.  
__Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same when temptation calls ..._

Afraid of change. Afraid of the unknown. The misunderstood. So many things Blaine didn't even _know_, how _could_ he understand? Some days he felt like he was choking on all of it. _Of course_ Patrick would sing this song.

_When I was born, they looked at me and said;  
__What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy.  
__And when you were born, they looked at you and said;  
__what a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl, hey_

Sometimes the only time he felt real anymore was when he was here, on this stage. When he was flawed, funny, talented Patrick, instead of Blaine who was just wrong in all kinds of ways.

When he was Patrick, he could breathe.

He took as many deep breaths as he could in that space before he had to face the world as Blaine again.

* * *

"He's back," Carl said, nodding at the stage. Finn nodded back. Carl's coffee was almost gone. He wondered if he should offer to refill it, or just do it without offering. He felt dumb asking those kind of questions, like he should just know the answer, without having to ask.

Carl grinned at him, which always made his stomach do funny things. "I think you knew he was going to be here tonight."

"Well, it's Saturday," Finn started, then paused, eyeing him. Sometimes conversations with Carl were like video games. Unexpected things popped up to surprise him, but this happened regularly enough that at least he could _expect _that there would be unexpected things. He supposed he was learning Carl's way of being with him, in the same way that he was learning... all kinds of stuff. He hurriedly turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.

"You think I came here to see him?" he guessed. Carl shrugged, looking at his coffee. Finn wasn't sure if that meant _Yes, I thought that, and it bothers me, _or _Yes, I thought that, and it's not a problem,_ or _I didn't really think that._ He waited for Carl to say more, but he didn't seem like he was going to.

Finn sighed as quietly as he could manage, and tried again. "Uh... you'd rather I didn't come here anymore?"

"No, it's fine, F- _Christopher_," Carl said, using the pseudonym Finn had chosen for when they were dealing with the group of people Carl called "the kink community." Carl used the name Derek, but Finn never called him that.

Carl pushed his coffee to the middle of the table. "He's a very handsome young man."

"Uh... I guess?" Finn squinted at Patrick, who was putting his guitar away and talking to one of the twins. He had nice hair, really curly and unruly, and a friendly smile. Nothing he could point to as being particularly... wait a minute. "You think I have a thing for him?"

"You're entirely justified in having any relationships you wish," he said smoothly. "You might want to consider the time factor, though. I wouldn't want your existing relationships to suffer, and there's your homework -"

"I'm not interested in Patrick," Finn insisted. "He's a good singer. I like listening to him. That's all."

Carl met Finn's gaze abruptly, and Finn had to remember to keep the breath going in and out. Nobody did _intense_ like Carl. "That's all," he echoed, and it was half question and half command.

Finn nodded vigorously until he realized he was doing it, and then he stopped and said, "Yes, sir."

It was true. He couldn't lie to Carl - or if he did, he was sure it would show on his face. Finn wasn't a good liar under any circumstances, anyway. He blushed and stammered and couldn't look anyone in the eye. He wasn't lying here.

But in this case, it would be more accurate to say _it's complicated._ Because the songs Patrick was singing were songs he knew, and listening to them made him feel things he didn't quite know what to do with. They didn't have anything to do with the boy. Or at least he didn't think they did. The Indigo Girls song, _god - _he'd sung it with the CD every day for a week when Puck was in Santa Fe. The song from _RENT, _he'd heard more times than he could count, that being Kurt's go-to musical DVD when he was feeling frustrated and angry with the world, or at least with Karofsky. The other two, he hadn't heard before, but he had the feeling he would like to, and maybe he would even look them up when he got home, download them, learn them well enough to sing along. Hope that Patrick might sing them again next week. He did have a great voice.

Okay, maybe it was a little weird that he was stalking this boy at his open mic. But - there was _something_ about him that made Finn feel like he should... _pay attention._ Something he couldn't put his finger on.

"He's hiding something," he heard himself say. Carl directed his intensity toward Patrick for a long moment - luckily, he wasn't looking back - then, slowly, nodded.

"You and that intuition of yours," Carl murmured. "I think I'd better watch myself around you."

Finn blinked. "Are there things you want to hide from me?"

"Everybody has things to hide," said Carl, and picked up his coffee spoon.

Finn took a deep breath and followed his _intuition. _"May I... get you another coffee, sir?"

Carl's eyes softened, and he sat back in his chair, relaxing. Finn felt himself flush, and the stupid grin returned. This was why they couldn't go out anywhere in Lima together. Anyone watching would know, immediately, that they were not friends, that Carl was not his uncle or his father or his teacher or any kind of reasonable authority figure. The way Carl looked at him, and the way he looked _back_, said one thing: _as soon as we're alone, there will be sex._ It was good Carl was very strict about confining their activities to private locations, or Finn thought there was a good chance he would have suggested the coffee house restroom. He closed his eyes, just to interrupt that ridiculous circuit of energy passing between them.

"Yes, thank you, Christopher," said Carl. Finn immediately stood and reached for the cup in the center of the table, at the same time Carl reached for it, too. Their hands collided, and Finn heard himself make an embarrassing noise at the contact.

"Sorry, sir," he whispered, then turned and fled. His heart was pounding. Finn thought it was the stupidest thing, that such a simple touch could make him freak out, but he couldn't deny it. It was Carl, not something that he did, but Carl, _himself,_ that drove Finn to slack-jawed confusion. _All he has to do is look at me to make me fall apart. _And Finn didn't understand why he didn't feel more angry or upset that Carl made him so powerless. It was almost - comforting, in a crazy way.

"What can I get for you?" asked the straight-faced African-American woman with the dreadlocks, standing behind the cash register.

"Uh - one coffee with cream, one hot chocolate," said Finn, smiling. She didn't smile back, but filled the cups efficiently.

"Which one are you?" Finn turned to see Patrick standing beside him, and he_ was_ smiling. Finn's first thought was _wow, he's really short,_ but he had enough presence of mind not to make these his first words.

"I'm the hot chocolate," said Finn. "I've tried, but I just don't like coffee."

Patrick shrugged. "Everybody's got things they like, and things they don't. Nothing wrong with that."

_You have no idea,_ was Finn's next thought. He held out his hand. "I'm Christopher."

"Patrick," he said, shaking Finn's hand, firm and solid. "I've seen you here before."

"I like the way you play your songs," Finn said. "You're a good singer."

"Here you go," said the woman behind the counter. Finn gave her the money she asked for, trying another smile, but it didn't work.

As they stepped away, Finn leaned in to Patrick and whispered, "I don't think she likes me very much."

"She's like that with everybody," Patrick assured him conspiratorially. "It's not like she's homophobic or something. Er - " He paused, looking a little embarrassed.

Finn felt himself blushing. "You can, uh, tell, huh?" Closing his eyes didn't make him feel any better, because he could see Carl on the back of his eyelids. "We're kind of obvious, I guess."

"A little," Patrick admitted. "It's no big deal. I mean, I'm gay."

Finn was taken a little aback by Patrick's frank statement, but he just nodded. "Cool. Well - thanks. I'm going to, uh..." He gestured with his full hands at Carl at the table, pointedly not looking at them together.

"Sure. Enjoy the rest of the night, Christopher."

Finn watched him walk away, wondering what he'd been thinking. The boy was together, friendly and confident. There was no obvious problem that Finn could detect. He wondered if maybe he'd made a mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

_(Author's note: I realized Youtube had NO recording of John Stamos singing Goodnight My Angel. So I fixed that. You can hear it here: www. youtube watch?v=nlto_85nGa4 If you have not heard it, WOW. It's the song that inspired Carl being Rachel's father, if you hadn't guessed. Thanks to songirl77 for her ridiculous plot-were-rabbits._

_We realize how much Finn is up to his neck in people ALREADY, and adding Blaine on top of things just seems... well, irresponsible doesn't really cut it. BUT. Consider also how much Finn NEEDS a boy with whom he is Dominant. It doesn't have to be sexual. He has Kurt, but things between them are more egalitarian than D/s. This kind of relationship, where Finn feels like he's giving something crucial, like he's really needed - it's exactly the kind of healing situation he requires to get over his issues with Puck. So roll with it, dear readers, and don't blame Finn - or Carl for shoving him at it. Carl knows how much he needs it too. -amy)_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

The next time Blaine walked into Java the Hut, he was startled to see Christopher and the older man sitting on the stage. The man was tuning a beat-up black acoustic guitar and leaning in to Christopher to point out something on a piece of paper. Christopher nodded at him, then looked and saw Blaine. He smiled, a big, genuine smile, and all Blaine could think was, _I don't think anyone's smiled at me like that all week._ Blaine gave him a little wave on his way over to the counter.

"Who's that guy on the stage with Christopher?" he said to Irene. She didn't even look up.

"Pretty sure he'd introduce himself to you as Derek. But you'll have to ask him yourself... _Patrick."_

"Uh... right." He blinked, because he'd always been Patrick here, and it had never occurred to him that Irene would have thought he was hiding anything. She shrugged.

"Some people have things they'd rather keep private. I got that. You want your usual?"

"Yeah, thanks," he said. Then he added, "And a coffee with cream, and a hot chocolate."

Irene glared at him. "You sure you want to do that, kiddo?"

"Why not?"

"Because you might not understand just what you're getting yourself into." But she set the three cups onto a tray and slid it carefully across the counter toward him. He took the tray and shook his head.

"It's coffee," he said. "Really. Just coffee."

"Uh-huh," she drawled. "You keep tellin' yourself that."

"Good evening, everybody," said the older man into the microphone, deftly deflecting the feedback from the microphone. His voice was light and smooth. "I'm Derek, and this is Christopher. This is the first time we've performed here. I think Christopher's a little nervous, so why don't you give him a round of applause up front?"

Blaine laughed at the expression on Christopher's face. He didn't look nervous, exactly. Excited, sure, and a little reproachful at Derek's comment, but his smile didn't abate. They were clearly making an effort not to look at one another. _The two of them, it's still pretty new,_ Blaine realized, and sighed. He wondered if _he'd_ ever have something like that.

"Here's an old favorite from The Beatles." Derek strummed the intro to "Here Comes the Sun," and they began, Christopher singing the Paul McCartney part and Derek filling in with the "doo doo doo"s. He had a nice voice; they both did, and they sounded good together. Christopher wasn't super polished, but his range was excellent, and he managed to sound enough like Paul while still making the song his own. Derek had clearly played guitar for a long time, and he looked comfortable on the stage. They got a good amount of applause from the audience.

Christopher hesitated, biting his lip in a way that made him look years younger. Blaine guessed he was in college, but he could have passed for a high school student. He said something to Derek that Blaine couldn't hear, then tipped the microphone up to his mouth.

"This is a song one of our regulars sang last week," he said. "I wonder if he might want to come up and sing it with me."

Blaine sat there with the three cups in front of him for several seconds before he realized Christopher was talking about _him._ Blaine pointed at himself, baffled, and Christopher nodded. He rose to a smattering of applause and walked to the stage.

"Are you going to tell me what the song is before I agree to sing it with you?" Blaine murmured, pulling up a chair and opening his guitar case.

Christopher smiled at him. "Indigo Girls," he said, softly, and Blaine nodded. "You looked like you really wanted someone to sing it with you, and the audience did an okay job, but not as good as the recording."

Blaine just shook his head, because really? It felt like Christopher was reading his mind. "You bet," he said, and smiled. "You want your hot chocolate first, or afterwards? I think it might be cold by then."

Christopher glanced at the table where Blaine had been sitting, then back to him, looking startled. Then he shrugged. "I don't mind it cold," he said. "Let's do this."

Blaine didn't need music, but he scooted his chair a little closer to Christopher's, anyway, to see where he was pointing.

"You want to sing that part? The REM guy?"

"Sure." Blaine strummed the chords, Em, Cmaj7, D11,and closed his eyes to the sound of Christopher's voice. It was kind of nice, to be doing something _for_ someone, like this. Playing for someone other than himself. Being appreciated for something he was capable at. He could hear the soft voice of Derek, and his guitar strumming along in the background, unobtrusive, supporting them both.

_Pain from pearls-hey little girl-  
__How much have you grown?  
__Pain from pearls-hey little girl-  
__Flower for the ones you've known._

_Are you on fire,  
__From the years?  
__What would you give for your  
__Kid fears?_

Blaine watched Christopher out of the corner of his eye as they sang, because he had to keep his focus on the audience, or on the music, but he could tell something was going on with the tall boy with the unexpectedly lovely voice. He wasn't exactly in pain, but it was like some remembered hurt, the echo of an intense memory. Blaine wished he knew what it was about.

_Secret staircase, running high,  
__You had a hiding place.  
__Secret staircase, running low,  
__But they all know, now you're inside._

Blaine thought of the hidden grove in the backyard of the house where he and Santana used to play and hide from the world. It was the safest place he'd had in that house, where he'd lived through so many of his parents' arguments. He scarcely went there anymore now that his father was in Columbus. He wondered suddenly if his mother had any safe places left at all.

He thought about Frances, the little girl for whom he'd once babysat, now practically grown herself - about the late-night phone calls he'd been getting from her, her slightly panicked whispers asking him about when he knew he was gay, and whether it was scary to suddenly have no idea who you were. She needed a hiding place, just like he'd used to.

And Dave. God, the last time they'd seen each other, Blaine almost hadn't been able to breathe through Dave's pain and anger. Blaine supposed he was lucky; Dalton wasn't perfect, but at least it was _safe_. Dave didn't have any kind of a sanctuary, and that made Blaine sad.

_Are you on fire,  
__From the years?  
__What would you give for your  
__Kid fears?_

_Skipping stones, we know the price now,  
__Any sin will do.  
__How much further, if you can spin.  
__How much further, if you are smooth._

Sometimes he wished things were still simple, the way they had been when he'd been little. He hated the idea of life being _easy_, because he always remembered things being so very _not_ easy.

Christopher held secure to the main part as Blaine sang Michael Stipe's countermelody, and he was grateful to hear Derek's voice strengthen behind them, filling in the gaps where his voice had been. The three of them sounded _good_ together. It was different from any singing he'd done before, but it came so naturally.

_Are you on fire,  
__From the years?  
__What would you give for your  
__Kid fears?_

_Replace the rent with the stars above.  
__Replace the need with love.  
__Replace the anger with the tide.  
__Replace the ones, the ones, the ones, that you love._

_Are you on fire,  
__From the years?  
__What would you give for your  
__Kid fears?_

When the applause died down, Blaine focused on packing up his guitar. When he looked up, Christopher was waiting at the bottom of the stage for him while Derek settled in with his own instrument. Blaine took the three steps into Christopher's space, and was suddenly shocked by the tentative suggestion of Christopher's hand at the small of his back. He flinched, and Christopher startled like he hadn't even realized what he'd done.

"Patrick," Christopher said quietly, and it took Blaine a moment to remember that was _him._ "Are you okay?"

"I- um." Blaine cursed the nervous stammer he'd never quite been able to get rid of, and half-nodded because he couldn't seem to find his words.

Christopher glanced back to the stage for a moment, making eye contact with Derek, and he nodded at him before turning back to Blaine. "You said you got us some coffee, right? Why don't we go sit down and relax for a minute." His voice was calm, and gave something Blaine to hold on to. "Come on."

Blaine followed him to the small table where he'd left his coat and the three drinks, and something told him to wait until Christopher had settled in before he sat down.

Christopher took a long breath, picking up his lukewarm chocolate and taking a sip. "Wow," he said. "You sounded great. Thanks for going along with that - I hope it wasn't a problem, me suggesting it from the stage like that."

"No," Blaine said, keeping his eyes on the edge of the table. "I'm not used to singing duets, so that was a good experience. Thank you, for thinking of asking me. It's one of my favorites of theirs."

Christopher watched Derek tuning up. "I learned that song from... a friend's CD. It was something that got me through a really hard week. I missed him, when he was away."

Blaine followed Christopher's gaze, and inclined his head to ask silently: _him?_ Christopher seemed to know what he meant, and shook his head. "No," the boy said, softly. "Someone else. My best friend."

Derek tipped the mic down and strummed an introductory chord. "This song is by Billy Joel. It was released the year my daughter was born. I'd like to dedicate it to her."

Blaine supposed he shouldn't be surprised to hear that a man so obviously involved with another guy might have a daughter. After all, his own father had had him. And Blaine knew that _he _wanted kids someday, even though he wasn't sure that he even _knew_ how to be a parent, because his models for good parenting were a little lacking. Unless he counted Marisol.

_Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes  
__And save these questions for another day  
__I think I know what you've been asking me  
__I think you know what I've been trying to say_

_I promised I would never leave you  
__Then you should always know  
__Wherever you may go, no matter where you are  
__I never will be far away_

Derek was a compelling performer, his presence stronger and more intense when he was there on the stage alone. He sang the song as though it were part of him. Blaine could almost imagine his daughter sitting there in the audience, listening and smiling. He wondered how old she might be now.

_Goodnight my angel, now it's time to sleep  
__And still so many things I want to say  
__Remember all the songs you sang for me  
__When we went sailing on an emerald bay_

_And like a boat out on the ocean  
__I'm rocking you to sleep  
__The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart  
__You'll always be a part of me_

Christopher was watching Derek sing with a completely transparent expression of admiration. It was clear, in everything they did together, how much they cared for one another. Blaine wasn't used to seeing such open affection between men. It made him a little anxious, in a strange way, as well as wistful. He was pretty sure he'd never had anything close to that.

_Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream  
__And dream how wonderful your life will be  
__Someday your child may cry, and if you sing this lullaby  
__Then in your heart there will always be a part of me_

_Someday we'll all be gone  
__But lullabies go on and on  
__They never die  
__That's how you and I will be_

Derek finished with an almost-sad smile, longing fleeting across his face and disappearing in seconds. Blaine wasn't sure anyone other than he and Christopher noticed, and he kept a keen eye on Christopher as Derek made his way over to the table, sliding into the seat on Christopher's left and touching his hand briefly. Christopher's entire being shifted in that moment, more relaxed and angled towards Derek, not quite the same boy who'd _almost touched_ Blaine just minutes ago.

"Do you need anything...?" Christopher asked Derek in a low voice. Derek shook his head, taking an absent-minded sip of his coffee, which was almost certainly cold by now. He didn't seem to notice, if it was.

"I think I should take a moment to myself," said Derek, and he sounded completely calm and collected, but Christopher rose to his feet immediately.

"Patrick, you want to take a walk?" he suggested.

Blaine nodded, still feeling a little sideways. Maybe the cool air would help him settle back into himself before his turn to sing. He shrugged into his coat and followed Christopher out onto the sidewalk, moving fast to keep up with Christopher's long strides. They walked until they reached the bench at the bus stop on the corner, and again Blaine was suddenly moved to defer to Christopher as they sat down. He waited, and didn't startle this time when Christopher's hand was more certain on his back.

"I'm sorry," he said, sitting next to Christopher and catching his breath at the cold metal underneath him. "I didn't mean to, I dunno. Flip out? Back there."

"No," Christopher replied, shaking his head. "I don't... I really shouldn't..."

Blaine felt something of _Patrick's_ confidence seeping, warm and slow, into his muscles. When he spoke, his voice was pitched low. "I don't know what that was," he admitted, "but I think I liked it."

Christopher's focus drew down sharply onto Blaine. For a moment he forgot they were on the street in Columbus, or that anyone else might be watching; the only thing he saw were Christopher's warm brown eyes regarding him. "Really," Christopher said softly.

Blaine shivered under Christopher's scrutiny, and nodded silently.

Christopher reached for Blaine's arm, touched it reassuringly. "It's okay. It's _okay,_ to want that."

"I don't even know what it _is_," he protested. He _didn't. _All he knew was what had started that night at Masque, the kind of simmering unnamed desire that was there in him, making his skin itch and his nerves jangle all the fucking time.

Christopher's face softened, and the look he gave Blaine was something fond, almost protective. "Yes," he said calmly, with no force. "Yes, you do." He held Blaine's gaze. "You can tell me, if you want. You're safe."

But Blaine _couldn't_. His blood was pounding in his ears, and he was _scared_, and before he could breathe he was up off the bench and all but running back to the coffeehouse. He could half-hear Christopher running after him, and he knew. He _knew_ he couldn't escape because he wasn't big enough or fast enough, and the scariest things of all were in his own _head_, and he couldn't really run from them at all.

"Wait!" Christopher sounded like he was right there, and when Blaine stopped moving he understood; Christopher's cool fingers were around his wrist, and he felt _still_ and _calm_ and _grounded_.

"How do you _do_ that?" He blinked at Christopher through an adrenaline-fueled haze.

"Do what?" Christopher just kept holding his wrist, and Blaine could feel his pulse slowing, everything just settling inside of him.

"Make me... calm. I can- I can _breathe_." He could; it was better, but everything was still so jumbled in his head, and he kept chasing the tiny shards of thoughts around and around. There was nothing to grab on to, nothing besides Christopher's hand, anchoring him.

"Yeah," Christopher murmured, with an understanding smile. "It happens like that. I don't know." He shrugged, crinkled his eyes in a smile. "It's something I used to be able to do, but... it's been a while now since I tried. Ca- um, my friend, he can do it, too. Do you feel better?"

Blaine did feel a little less scattered. "I think so."

Christopher hesitated, glancing around at the empty street. "Would you mind?" He beckoned Blaine to come closer, holding out his arms. "I'm not going to... do anything. Much. Just - trust me. You have to _come here._"

Blaine felt like he was stepping off a cliff. After an eternal pause, he sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes and crossed the distance between them, into the startling security of Christopher's tight embrace.

Every time he'd touched or been touched by another boy, it had been tinged with physical hunger that had left him wanting and oddly empty. It was good, and at the same time never quite enough. But this was different. _This_ was warm, and safe, and made him feel like some of the missing pieces had slotted right into place, and to his surprise it wasn't sexual at all.

Christopher's measured breaths moved in and out with Blaine's, and with each one, he could feel his anxiety slipping away, the itchy feeling on his skin sliding off him like water, until he was left with nothing but calm and care, and a sensation he thought he might never have had before.

"That's it," Christopher soothed, his hand stroking Blaine's back. "That's good. I can tell, you're feeling better, now."

Blaine was starting to feel a little uncertain, like maybe he should pull away from Christopher's arms, but he stayed, soaking up every bit of that grounded feeling. Finally Christopher did let him go. "Are you all right?"

Blaine shook his arms out, twisted his neck from side to side, felt the looseness in his body. "I think- _yes_." He sighed. "Well. Better, at least. I'm generally kind of a mess, so _all right_ is relative."

Christopher smiled at him, open and pleased. "I know all about mess," he said. "I live in a world of complicated. Do you want to go back inside now?"

Blaine nodded. "Yeah. I hope Irene didn't give my spot away." Because _god_, he _really_ wanted to sing tonight.

"I'm sure it'll be fine. She seems to like you." Christopher opened the door, held it for Blaine, and _this_ time Blaine actually let himself almost enjoy the feel of Christopher's hand on his back.

"She lets me sing every week," Blaine shrugged. "I guess that's as good an indicator as any."

Derek was standing at the counter, talking to Irene in an undertone, but when they came back inside, he returned to their table. Blaine settled back into his chair, trying to listen to the girl who was at the piano, working her way through a Tori Amos song. Derek gazed calmly at them both, and Blaine pretended not to hear him whisper _everything okay?_ into Christopher's ear. Christopher just gave a tiny nod and let the back of his hand rest against Derek's arm.

* * *

"Everything okay?" murmured Carl. Finn nodded, trying not to be distracted by the closeness of him, Carl's breath in his ear. Patrick was climbing the stage with his guitar case, his own coffee forgotten on the table. _I should get him a new cup, _Finn thought.

Patrick. He'd touched him from instinct, not even thinking about the possible consequences. And Patrick's dramatic response was unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. He didn't get the impression Patrick was hitting on him; that wasn't what he was sensing. It was more like Patrick was a spaceship without a navigation system. Sometimes he would happen to land on something flat, and was okay for a little while, but even that was unpredictably secure; he might easily fly off into open space at any moment. It reminded Finn a little of how Kurt got sometimes, when he needed to be held tight and secure, to bring him back into his body.

Finn felt the energy travel up his spine, intense and tingling, and he shuddered. Carl looked at him sharply.

"Something's happening," he said.

"Yeah," Finn agreed, feeling bemused.

Carl nodded. "... Again."

He glanced first at Patrick, getting settled on the stage, then back at Carl, and finally at the table, sighing. "I don't really know what to do about it."

Carl gave him a soft smile, and Finn felt a sense of deja vu. "Yes, you do."

It wasn't the place, Finn knew, but he wanted more than anything to climb into the circle of Carl's arms, and close his eyes, and forget that anybody needed _anything _from him. "Okay, yeah," he said finally. "I do. I'm just freaked out that I'm going to mess up again, like I did with Puck."

Carl leaned forward onto his arms on the table, gazing at the boy on the stage, who was starting to tune up. "You might," he acknowledged. "Doesn't mean you can't explore this. Can you handle that? There's no need for perfection here. We're all doing the best we can."

Finn flinched. "What if that's not enough?"

Carl wasn't budging. "What's the alternative, _Christopher?"_

Patrick was strumming a quiet intro now, and Finn closed his mouth. He wasn't going to solve this right now, in the middle of Patrick's performance.

_I think I've already lost you  
__I think you're already gone  
__I think I'm finally scared now  
__You think I'm weak - but I think you're wrong_

_I think you're already leaving  
__Feels like your hand is on the door  
__I thought this place was an empire  
__But now I'm relaxed - I can't be sure_

Finn felt tears pricking his eyes. The song could be about anyone, or anything, but it felt like his song, and he gasped in recognition of _so much_, even just in the first verse. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he could stand being in the same room as this music.

"_Christopher!_" Carl's Voice cut through the lyrics and the panic, and Finn jerked his attention back to the present, breathed into the trust he put in Carl. He stood slowly and let himself be led away from the table, past the counter, and into the dim hallway near the restrooms.

Carl touched the side of Finn's cheek. "Now. What's going on?"

"People always leave," Finn whispered, not expecting an answer, but he did feel Carl's hand tighten around his own. He could still hear Patrick singing.

_I think you're so mean - I think we should try  
__I think I could need - this in my life  
__I think I'm just scared - I think too much  
__I know this is wrong, it's a problem, I'm dealing_

"Explain," Carl said, low, and Finn kept his eyes on the floor.

"My dad, Kurt's mom, Puck's mom. They all died. Puck, his brother, his dad? They all _left_. Even Rachel."

He felt Carl's hand, warm and reassuring on his shoulder. "Puck came back, though. He came back _to you_, and _for you_. What's scaring you?" God, Carl always knew how to get him to cut through the echoes in his head.

"How can I... _explore_ things with Patrick when I'm already doing too much. What will that mean for us? Are you going to leave me, too?" Finn's heart caught, stuttered at the thought of it, of how it would feel to be in the world without Carl. He almost laughed at himself, because he'd survived almost seventeen years without him. He just couldn't imagine how he had done that.

"We both know we can't make any kinds of promises." Carl's voice was calm, collected. He pulled Finn in close to him, kissed him so gently. "You and I, we'll figure it out. Just as you and _Patrick_ will figure things out, if that's what you both want."

_If you're gone - maybe it's time to go home  
__There's an awful lot of breathing room  
__But I can hardly move_

_If you're gone - baby you need to come home  
__Cuz there's a little bit of something me  
__In everything in you_

Carl held him in the darkness of the hall while the song went on. "He's new to this, yes?"

"Yes." Carl glanced away, and added _sir_ in a whisper.

"Good boy. You'll need to take care. He seems like one who might spook easily."

Finn huffed out a tight laugh. "I think we _both_ might spook easily. Sir."

"You're probably right about that," Carl said with affection, and he reached up to ruffle Finn's hair playfully. "Now. Let's go finish listening to him sing."

_I bet you're hard to get over  
__I bet the room just won't shine  
__I bet my hands I can stay here  
__I bet you need - more than you mind_

_I think you're so mean - I think we should try  
__I think I could need - this in my life  
__I think I'm just scared - that I know too much  
__I can't relate and that's a problem I'm feeling_

_If you're gone - maybe it's time to go home  
__There's an awful lot of breathing room  
__But I can hardly move_

_If you're gone - baby you need to come home  
__Cuz there's a little bit of something me  
__In everything in you_

Finn felt like he was seeing Patrick with entirely new eyes, hearing him with new ears. The song was hitting him with the same powerful impact as it had before he'd spoken with Carl, but now... he felt like he understood it differently. It was Patrick, what _he_ needed, that Finn was concerned about now. He shook his head to clear it. _When had he started caring so much?_

Carl kept his hand under the table, and it was that support, and the tentative, amazed expression on Patrick's face that was giving him the confidence to keep going. He nodded at Patrick, smiling, and took a deep breath. _I can do this. __He needs it - and so do I. _

* * *

Blaine felt caught in Christopher's orbit, like he was the only other person in the coffeehouse. _I'm not attracted to him,_ he thought, as he finished his first song. It was something different that was tugging at him, something even more forceful. When Christopher suddenly got up in the middle of his song and went in the hallway with Derek, though, he couldn't help but feel a little lost, like he'd lost sight of his target and now he was searching again. Sometimes the music helped him get back on track, but more often than not these days, he had to resort to the cocaine to do that for him. He hoped he wouldn't need to do that. Not here.

He'd planned a Bruce Springsteen song for his second one, but when he set his hands back on his guitar, he found his fingers plucking out a P!nk song. Blaine _loved_ P!nk, loved the danceability of her songs, and they were just the sort of thing the Warblers would sing.

But this one, with its pensive tone, was perfect for Patrick.

_Have you ever fed a lover with just your hands?  
__Closed your eyes and trusted, just trusted?  
__Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?  
__Have you ever looked fear in the face and said, "I just don't care"?_

_It's only half past the point of no return  
__The tip of the iceberg  
__The sun before the burn  
__The thunder before the lightning  
__The breath before the phrase  
__Have you ever felt this way?_

He almost laughed, because the whole night had felt like the tip of the iceberg, like if he could just cut past the wall of fear in his brain, he'd understand everything. He hated feeling _slow_ like that, like he just couldn't make connections with things or people, so he usually hid it behind his uniform and easy smile. But he didn't need to hide here.

_Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?  
__Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone  
__Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?  
__Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?_

_It's only half past the point of oblivion  
__The hourglass on the table  
__The walk before the run  
__The breath before the kiss  
__And the fear before the flames  
__Have you ever felt this way?_

As he sang the _la la las_, he did feel a little too close to tears, because Christopher's touch had affected him so much. Blaine made eye contact with him, trying to give him some kind of understanding about what he was going through, the confusion inside him, the help he needed, had needed all his life. _Come inside,_ he was saying, and it was terrifying and compelling at the same time.

_There you are, sitting in the garden  
__Clutching my coffee,  
__Calling me sugar  
__You called me sugar_

_Have you ever wished for an endless night?  
__Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight?  
__Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself will it ever get better than tonight?  
__Tonight_

He held the last note, let it just drift away, fed all of his wanting and hope into it, and he kept his eyes on Christopher the whole time. Christopher stared back at him, his eyes slightly unfocused and his jaw half-dropped, looking like he'd been knocked on the head. Like the song had grabbed his heart and twisted it.

_The way it did when I first heard it,_ Blaine thought. _It was like I'd never heard anything like it._ _It broke me, and it looks like it broke Christopher too_.

He didn't really have anything to say to the audience; he didn't need friendly banter, he just needed the release of the music, so he picked up the tempo and strummed hard, being careful not to break a string because he'd forgotten the new packet in his dorm room, and _that_ would be embarrassing.

_I have climbed highest mountain  
__I have run through the fields  
__Only to be with you  
__Only to be with you_

_I have run  
__I have crawled  
__I have scaled these city walls_

_These city walls  
__Only to be with you  
__But I still haven't found what I'm looking for  
__But I still haven't found what I'm looking for_

Blaine felt that way every day, like he just couldn't _stop_ himself from the endless searching. He just wished he knew what he was searching for. It was exhausting, feeling so lost all the time.

_I have kissed honey lips  
__Felt the healing in her fingertips  
__It burned like fire  
__This burning desire_

_I have spoken with the tongue of angels  
__I have held the hand of a devil  
__It was warm in the night  
__I was cold as a stone_

_But I still haven't found what I'm looking for  
__But I still haven't found what I'm looking for_

He'd toyed with the idea of changing the _her_ before fingertips to a _his_, but he'd never been one for altering songs that way, even though the second verse made him think, always, of the boy from Masque. He still held onto the nagging possibility that, maybe, that boy held all the answers to the invisible questions in Blaine's head.

_I believe in the kingdom come  
__Then all the colors will bleed into one  
__Bleed into one  
__Well yes I'm still running_

_You broke the bonds and you  
__Loosed the chains  
__Carried the cross  
__Of my shame  
__Of my shame  
__You know I believed it_

_But I still haven't found what I'm looking for  
__But I still haven't found what I'm looking for..._

Derek was packing up as Blaine came down from the stage. "You sounded better that time," Derek said, with a nod. "A little more relaxed."

"Yes, I... I think I am." Blaine took a deep breath, feeling the calm in his muscles, the way his spine stood a little more straight. "I'm doing better now."

"That's good. We all need a little support now and then." His smile was kind and knowing, and even though Blaine still didn't quite understand why, he smiled back.

"Patrick," he heard, and turned to look up at Christopher, standing right beside him, his brown eyes shining.

"Five minutes, Christopher," Derek said, and shouldered his guitar case as he headed out the door with a wave to Blaine.

"I... " Blaine began, but Christopher cut him off.

"I know that was surprising," he said. "What happened. I mean... _something_ happened. Right?" His words were uncertain, but his face was calm and steady.

"Yes," Blaine said softly. "Something."

Finn nodded. "I think I need time to think about it. And you should, too. I'm going to be in California next weekend, but... I'll see you when I get back."

"Okay," he said. He wasn't sure how thinking about what had happened was going to help, but he was willing to try. "Uh, have fun in California. Assuming it's a pleasure trip."

"Going to see Lady Gaga," he said, with a strange smile.

"Oh - really?" That was a surprise, because he wouldn't have guessed Christopher would be a fan, and he hadn't even known she was touring. "Enjoy that, then."

"I will," said Christopher. "I'm going with some friends who are going to enjoy it even more."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three - **following episode 1.15 Madonna, and after the boys return from California

Finn didn't say to Carl how much he was looking forward to Saturday's open mic, but as with most things, he didn't figure he had to. Carl just knew how Finn was feeling. He wondered if that was the case with most Tops and their boys, or if it was a talent Carl had. And, after all, he'd been away for a couple weeks, so it made sense he'd want to reconnect.

But when they walked in and set down their guitars in the back of the room, a quick sweep of the coffeehouse revealed no Patrick.

"Is Patrick coming this week?" Finn asked Irene at the counter. She shrugged noncommittally.

"Wait and see," she said.

But Patrick never showed. It made everything about the evening a little less bright, like all the color had been washed out of the situation. The music was dull and lifeless, and he wasn't the only one who felt it.

"We're missing something tonight," Carl said, after their lackluster performance. Finn sighed and nodded, and Carl tracked him carefully with his eyes. "Or someone, hmm?"

"Maybe," Finn allowed. "I don't know why I care. He's not my boyfriend or anything."

Carl nodded. "Sometimes it isn't like that. But that doesn't mean it's not important, or that you don't need it."

Finn shifted his legs under the table, trying to get comfortable. "Do you think Irene might know something about him? Maybe how I could get in touch with him?" He rolled his eyes at himself. "God, I don't know... that sounded a little desperate."

Carl's expression was still kind, but ruthless. Finn quailed under its intensity. "Well, _Christopher, _maybe you're feeling a little desperate."

_Maybe I am._ He stood, needing to move, needing to... yeah, he knew what he needed to do. "I should go home to Kurt," he said, trying to stuff down the tension as best as he could.

"Is that what you need?"

"No," he said, gritting his teeth. "But it's what I have right now."

It wasn't like things with Kurt weren't good. It wasn't like they didn't give each other amazing things. But sometimes, he wished Kurt wanted what Puck had wanted. Kurt didn't need that kind of submission, the deep surrender of his self. He gave himself up gracefully; he seldom needed Finn to take it from him. _But sometimes I want to._ He didn't know for certain if Patrick needed what Kurt needed, or what Puck needed - or something all his own. He just wanted to find out.

He made his way back to the counter and waited for all the customers to clear out to their own tables. Irene gave him a keen look as he shifted back and forth between his feet.

"Too much coffee... boy?" she said quietly. Finn blinked at her.

"Uh..." He glanced at Carl, but he was paying attention to the stage. "I don't drink coffee... ma'am."

"Hmmm," she said, nodding her head in understanding. "Something else, then."

"Do you know if he'll be back next week?" he said. "I just need to talk to him."

She gave him a fixed stare. "Oh, honey, that's not what you need to do with that boy. You know better than that."

"Yeah," he said, a little weakly. "I guess not. Um - so...?"

Irene started in on making a hot chocolate, steaming the milk. "Patrick's put his trust in me to keep his life a secret. I'm not going to betray his trust, any more than I would use a name other than Derek for your man, here. Just as I'm not going to ask your real name... Christopher."

Finn nodded understanding. "Well, in that case, could I leave him a note?"

"I'm not likely to see him again until next weekend," she said doubtfully, but at Finn's desperate pleading glance, she sighed. "Fine. Knock yourself out. I'll play mailman for you two. But I draw the line at booking motel rooms."

Finn thanked her a little too profusely, and she glared at him as she passed him a blank piece of paper and a pen.

_Patrick,_ he wrote, as neatly as he could, _I missed you at the open mic this week. Hope everything is okay. I thought I'd leave you my email address just in case you want to talk some more. Take care, Christopher._

She took it from him and tucked it in the pocket of her apron. "Not promising anything here," she warned him.

"I know." But Finn felt a little better already.

* * *

"Got plans for the weekend?" Jeff swung through Blaine's open door as he was stuffing the last of his clothes into his bag.

"My dad got tickets for Fiddler on the Roof for tonight." Blaine shrugged. "It's not my favorite, but Dad's excited."

"Have fun, man. And let me know how you like the show. My sister's going next week." He nodded at Blaine and took off up the hall; Blaine could hear him rapping his hands on closed doors as he went.

Blaine eyed his guitar, resting in the corner next to his desk. He wasn't going to get to play at the open mic, but that didn't mean he couldn't play at his dad's house. He hadn't actually played guitar for his dad at all since he'd progressed beyond the D, C and G chords he'd needed to play a simplified version of Yellow Submarine back in middle school.

He grabbed the guitar, and his bag, and booked it to the front circle to meet Thomas before he could change his mind about music. Before he could think too hard about the little knot of unease in his stomach that flared when he thought about missing the open mic.

About not getting to see Christopher.

What the hell was _that_ about? They hadn't done._.._ _anything. _Blaine knew that he didn't have a crush on Christopher. All he knew was that the time he'd spent in Christopher's arms last week had given him an awesome sense of security that had carried him through the better part of the week. He hadn't needed the coke until Thursday night, which was unusual. The other Warblers had even noticed, offering up some good natured ribbing about Blaine having finally met a hot boy. Blaine just waved them off, because he didn't know how to explain that it had nothing at all to do with sex.

_It's like, sometimes it's just too much to handle,_ he thought, trying to sort it out in his head. _But it wasn't, with Christopher, because he took care of it. He made things simple. _

The thought kept gnawing at him over the miles, though, that _taking care of it_ wasn't all of what had felt so right. But he couldn't find the clarity he craved, and he finally decided that nothing was going to get solved in the car with Thomas, so he filed the nagging thoughts away in his brain for later.

If his normal routine held up, he'd dream about it all that night anyway.

* * *

Monday Blaine was jittery enough that his English teacher asked if he'd had a triple shot in addition to his normal coffee.

That night, his dreams were plagued by the mohawked boy, a vibrant red bird and a yellow canary, and a tiny blonde child with verbal skills far advanced for her size. He woke, heart pounding out of his chest and his breath coming fast, just after 2 am.

He never went back to sleep.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon he fell asleep in Geometry. That earned him two demerits and half an hour of one-on-one work with Mr. Fishbein before he was allowed to go to Warblers practice.

Wes gave him the stink-eye all through rehearsal, Jeff just looked concerned, and Blaine ended up taking his dinner to go because he couldn't handle his salisbury steak and mashed potatoes under the council's scrutiny.

There were no birds in his dreams that night. No mohawked boy. But the little girl was there, older, her hand warm and tiny in his as she led him through a maze. _Where are we going?_ his dream-self asked, but she didn't respond until the maze opened into a clearing filled with light.

Then she smiled at him. _I'm taking you to papa, _was all she said.

He startled awake again, but felt oddly calm, if not more than a little puzzled.

He just didn't understand his brain sometimes.

* * *

Wednesday started better. He made it to breakfast and his first class on time, but then he started feeling anxious and jittery, and he couldn't focus. He kept clicking his pen, drummed his fingers on his desk. Shifted positions so many times he felt like a pretzel. Ms. Kennard kept glancing at him sideways as she worked the class through the first part of their daily translation. Blaine usually loved his Latin class, but he couldn't make his brain focus, and the words just looked like gibberish on the paper in front of him.

He tossed his pen onto his desk and sighed deeply, running aggravated hands through his hair.

Ms. Kennard absolutely _glared_ at him and gestured to the door with her head. "Work quietly, please, for a few minutes," she told the rest of the class, and Blaine followed her into the hall, hands jammed into his pants pocket.

"Are you all right, Blaine?" She peered at him from under her stylishly too-long bangs, her face full of concern. "You seem anxious today."

Blaine tried to shake his head, to reassure her that he was just fine, but he couldn't do anything but stand there and glare at the floor.

"Do you need to go to the nurse?" Her voice was gentle, and Blaine watched through a fog as she reached out and touched his elbow. He jumped at the contact, blinked his eyes, felt warmth and wetness on his cheeks. He had to get out of there before he broke down sobbing in front of his _teacher_.

"N-no," he managed to choke out. "I c-can't b-breathe."

"Here," she said, guiding him over to the wall. "Why don't you sit a minute. I'll be right back."

Blaine slid down the wall and sat with his knees under his chin, listening to the squeak of the door as Ms. Kennard moved into and then out of the classroom with efficiency. She had his backpack and his books, and the box of tissues off her desk. "Here, honey. You're all drippy."

He took the tissue she offered, and dabbed at his face. He almost laughed when Ms. Kennard tucked her legs under her skirt and curled next to him on the floor.

"You don't have to-" he waved his hand at her, but couldn't find the rest of his sentence. "Class," he finally worked out, tilting his head back towards the room.

"I'm sure they can handle themselves. I don't usually end up with party kids in Latin." She regarded him for a cool minute, watched him use a second, and then a third, tissue to try and stem the flood of tears that were just falling from his eyes. He wasn't even actively crying, he just . . . well. He couldn't _stop_, was the problem.

"I'll be okay, really." He saw doubt flicker across her face, but she hid it well.

"Why don't you go on back to your room? I can call down to the office and have you excused for the day."

Blaine _almost_ told her that _Andersons don't skip class_, but he just _knew_ that he'd be a mess for the rest of the day. He felt raw, and too open to the world, and like everyone could see the jumbled mess of him.

"Okay," he finally agreed, and worked on pretending to put himself back together. "I don't know-" he swiped his hand at his face, trying not to rub his swollen eyes even though he really wanted to. "I'm _sorry_," he finally sighed. "I don't know what happened."

"It's okay, Blaine. We all have days like this. Just be kind to yourself, okay? I'll see you in class tomorrow." She smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder before turning back to the classroom.

Blaine trudged slowly down the hall and out to the front of the academic building, squinted in the rare sight of February sun glinting on pristine snow, and contemplated his options. His room was cozy. He could burrow under his blankets with a book or a movie and forget the world. Or he could do a line of coke and let it carry him through his day, flying on artificial confidence.

Or he could take the bus down to Columbus, hope that Irene was working, and that just maybe she knew _something_ about Christopher.

Because Blaine knew that if he had to wait until Saturday night for answers, he might _actually _go crazy.

* * *

The coffeehouse was completely dead at ten-thirty in the morning, tables and chairs set up on the stage. But Irene was there, seated at a table, working on a stack of paperwork. She actually looked surprised to see him.

"Well, what do you know, Patrick," she said, leaning back in her chair and regarding him thoughtfully. "I have a message for you."

"A - you do?" Blaine stared at the paper she dug out of her apron and placed in his hands. "Who...?"

"Just read the damn thing, kid," she sighed, and returned to her paperwork. "Help yourself to coffee."

Blaine didn't dare; he was already jumpy enough, but he said thanked Irene anyway. He unfolded the paper and read Christopher's brief note. Because it was from Christopher, of course - who else would have sent him a message? - and it was incredible how grateful he felt, just for that little morsel of thoughtfulness. On top of that gratitude, he also felt confused (_why would anyone, especially a boy like Christopher, who's clearly got someone in his life, want to take care of me?)_ and guilty (_he has better things to do than waste his time on this, I'm a basket case) _and excited (_he really wants me to email him?). _But none of those feelings stopped him from being... _happy._

"Not a bad message, then," he heard, and looked up to see Irene watching him with an amused expression. It was almost a smile.

"No," he said softly. "Not a bad message at all." He glanced around, shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other. "Do you, um, have wifi?"

Irene kept looking at him, and slowly raised an eyebrow. "You think I could stay in business without it? All those university kids needing their caffeine and Internet." She snorted, muttering, _"Do I have wifi?" _

Blaine settled himself at one of the empty tables and pulled his laptop out. He was still getting used to the difference of the Mac; he'd had his old Dell for so long, he knew the keyboard with his eyes closed. But it had conked out right before Christmas break, and had taken half of his English paper with it. He hadn't expected to get the newest Mac model, certainly not from his father, Mr. PC-is-the-only-way. But the glint in Thomas' eye on Christmas morning had told Blaine _plenty_ about who had done the Christmas shopping that year.

It took him three tries to get connected to the network because he kept clicking his mouse wrong, but once he was in he opened his email and sent off a brief message to Christopher.

_Date: Wed Jan 27, 2010  
__From: __patrick.2010 at gmail dot com  
__To: christopherincolumbus at gmail dot com  
__Subject: your message at Java the Hut_

_Christopher,_

_I guess I want to say thank you for the message, but really I should say I came looking for you in the middle of this week, after being way more disappointed than I'd expected to be to miss the open mic on Saturday. I'm not even sure how to say this, but I think you did something to me, or I did something to myself... I'm kind of freaking out, and I think you can fix it. If that makes sense, you're way ahead of me. Anyway... now you have my email address, and if you're at all willing to talk, drop me an email. _

_Thanks again,_

_Patrick_

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, unsure of what to do next. He didn't want to head back to school yet, but he felt weird just sitting there. He figured maybe he could do some homework or something, at least until he settled a little more. But he could feel Irene's eyes boring holes in the side of his face, so he turned and looked at her.

"Everything okay?" he asked, trying to lighten his tone.

She considered him obliquely, not quite staring at his face, but giving him some space to squirm and fidget under her gaze. "I think you should be the one to tell me that," she suggested.

He started to say that he was fine, because that was his default response whenever _anybody_ asked, but he felt like he couldn't lie to Irene. "I'm, um... having a bad day?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" Irene shuffled her papers in front of her, settling them into a neat stack before getting up and moving over to sit across from Blaine at his table, carrying her industrial-strength-sized plastic coffee mug with her.

"T-telling you. I'm having a bad day." He felt like he used to when he was a kid, when Marisol would catch him and Santana doing something they weren't really supposed to, a little embarrassed and a lot penitent, even though he wasn't sure what there was to apologize for.

"I can see that." She tilted her head, regarding him cryptically. "Tell me what's bad about it."

Blaine twisted his hands on the table. "I don't know if I can explain it. I was in class, and I was all over the place, I couldn't focus, I couldn't do _anything..._ and then I was crying and I couldn't breathe. I've been-" he sighed, not really wanting to tell Irene _too much_ but also feeling like he couldn't _not_ tell her. "I've been having these weird dreams, about this boy I met back in the fall. We, um..." He had to pause then, to try and fight the blush creeping up his face.

She beckoned with one hand. "Come on. Whatever it is, just say it. You'd have to go a long way to find something that would embarrass me."

"We kissed, and, uh, _made out_." His cheeks felt blazing hot; he _hated_ being embarrassed.

Irene's lips twitched. "I think we might have done things like that back in the stone age. Yeah."

He shook his head. "It wasn't just that. I mean, that was, um... really good. But the way he was with me, like he wanted to _take_ something from me? _That_ was really _hot_."

She wasn't looking at him like he had two heads. On the contrary, she was nodding. "And you - you wanted to give, what he wanted to take?"

Blaine felt like all the things he hadn't been able to quite reach since that night were suddenly a lot closer, even if he couldn't touch them yet. At least now he could see them, feel them pull together into nothing more than Irene's question and his answer, sure and solid on his tongue.

"Yes," he said with certainty.

She nodded again, and he thought he detected satisfaction on her face, and possibly - was that pride? He wasn't sure; it was too fleeting. "Well, Patrick, you can be sure you're not the only one who understands about the give and the take. It can be compelling, and meaningful, under the right circumstances. But... this boy, you're seeing him? The one from the bar?"

Blaine shook his head rapidly. "No, no," he stammered. "It was just that night. I don't... I don't even know his name."

"Ah." Irene looked sympathetic. "So you're not really getting what you need, here."

"I don't- I don't even _know_ what I need. So I guess I'm not getting it." Sometimes he felt like he was thinking and speaking in some kind of weird code.

"And you think this other boy... Christopher? You think he has some answers to your questions? Maybe he can solve this problem for you?" She scowled at him when he nodded. "What makes you think you can trust him? You barely know him. He's not even telling you his real name."

"He doesn't know my real name, either," Blaine retorted sharply before shrinking back into his chair under the steel of Irene's glance.

To his surprise, she chuckled. "Yes, boy, I think you've got some good idea about what you might need. And you're probably right, that Christopher can help you with that. I'll tell you, I know his friend - Derek? He's a good resource for this, too. Don't overlook him, if you need some clarity. I'd trust him, and I suppose anyone he's... close with, the way he and Christopher appear to be. I'd say he's probably trustworthy too." She gave him a wry grimace. "No matter what name he uses. Not everybody is free to be honest about themselves."

He leaned forward in his chair, rested his hands flat on the table. "Irene?"

"Yes, honey?"

"People are always telling me I need to figure things out on my own. But these things I'm feeling? I don't understand, and everyone else seems to _know_. Please. What _is_ this?" He knew he was close to whining, but he didn't know how to make himself stop.

She reached across the table and took his shaking hands in her steady ones. "I'm guessing you feel lost, confused sometimes, like you don't know which way is up. You're jittery, like you didn't have enough sleep. Maybe you're having trouble focusing at school. You're on the edge of tears all the time, and nothing seems to touch it. You've got a short temper, and even though you don't mean to be, you're resistant to help, even rude sometimes." She inclined her head. "Am I close?"

Blaine swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, around the absolute relief that someone really _did_ know what was going on with him. "Yes."

"All right. So what if I told you that there were people who struggle with these feelings, just like you are right now? And, in addition, there are a whole second group of people who are having similar feelings, but for the opposite reason? _You_ need someone to help you focus, Patrick, to give you the care and attention you deserve, and when you can't do it on your own, to give you the discipline you need. Other people desire to give that focus, to care for and attend to people like you. And to supply the discipline, when it's needed."

"D-discipline? L-like, um... sp-spanking?" Blaine remembered being a little boy, doing something his father thought he shouldn't, and the unnerving feeling of being turned over his father's knee.

One eyebrow went up. "Hmm. Funny you should jump right to that, but... yes, many people respond well to that kind of discipline. But keep in mind, Patrick, this situation we're describing is _consensual, _between equals. It's not the same as an adult disciplining a child."

"Oh." Blaine thought about that for a moment, about what it might feel like if he _asked_ someone to do that to him. He wondered if it would settle him the same way Christopher's arms around him had. His whole body felt warm at the idea of it.

"It's by no means the only form of discipline in a power exchange relationship, though it is remarkably straightforward and simple. I know plenty of adults who fit both descriptions, giver and receiver, and both benefit from spanking, or being spanked." She watched his face carefully. "Does that surprise you?"

He laughed nervously. "_All_ of this surprises me." He closed his eyes for a moment, focused _hard_, and looked at her again. "I never knew . . ." His voice trailed off, but he didn't know how to finish his thought so he just left it there.

She seemed to understand. "Well, tell me this. Your boy in the bar. How do you think it would be if he spanked you?"

Blaine shivered involuntarily and heard himself whimper a little bit. "G-good," he finally managed to squeak, to his own surprise. It was amazing what happened when you stopped thinking quite so much.

Irene nodded again. "That's what I figured. And Christopher, he seems to understand something about this, too. I'm sure Derek wouldn't mind me saying he does, too. And me."

He wasn't surprised, by now, to hear that about Irene, and he nodded. "So... now what? I just _wait_, until I hear from Christopher? And when I do, what do I even _tell_ him?"

"Oh, honey." She patted his hand gently. "Trust me, he already knows. And yes, you'll have to wait for him to get your message - but, judging by the expression on that boy's face when he came in looking for you on Saturday, you ain't gonna have to wait long."

Blaine looked at his computer's screen saver, thought about the books in his bag. "Is it okay if I hang out here for a while? I'll be quiet; I have homework I can do."

She held out her hands. "Be my guest. You can see how busy it is around here. I'll be in and out of the back, but you just let me know if you decide there's anything you need."

Blaine nodded, and pulled out his Latin book and the translation from that morning. The slow precision of the language usually settled him, and it didn't make his brain hurt like geometry did. Irene glanced at his book, and nodded at him.

"Latin, hm?" She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Yes," he said, pausing, before his gut told him to say more. "Ma'am."

"Yes," she said almost to herself before resting a hand on his shoulder. "You're a smart boy, Patrick. And a good boy."

Blaine didn't know why, but her words made him feel like jello inside.

* * *

Finn felt strange all morning. Not _sick_, just weird, like something was wrong and he couldn't figure out what.

He checked in with Puck and Kurt and Rachel, ducked into the men's room to call and talk to Carl, and even stopped Quinn in the hall to ask about how she and the baby were doing, but everyone was okay. Everyone except for him.

On the way to Glee, he was so distracted that he tripped over his own stupid feet, and went flying halfway down the stairs, which was not only embarrassing, it also _really_ hurt.

"I think I need to go home," he told Mr. Schue, rubbing at a knot on his elbow from where he'd hit it on the railing.

"I don't think that's a problem, Finn." Mr. Schue said. He caught Puck and Kurt making worried faces at him from the last row of chairs. Puck climbed down the risers, digging his keys out of his leather jacket and passing them to Finn.

"I can get a ride home with Kurt," he said. "It's making funny noises, but it should get you home."

"Thanks, man," Finn muttered. "I don't know what's going on. Maybe I just need some sleep."

"I'll be at Kurt's for dinner. See you there, if you're feeling up to it." Puck watched him with concern as Finn took his backpack and got out of the building as fast as he could.

Being gone from school didn't help at all. It just made things worse. Without the predictability of classes and bells, he was utterly lost.

He drove by Carl's office twice, even though he _knew_ Carl had clients all afternoon. He thought about getting coffee and a donut at Pat's, but given the way he was, jittery and frantic like he needed a damn spanking, he didn't think sugar _or_ caffeine would help matters at all. Finally, he just gave up and went home.

The house was quiet; his mom was at work. He dropped his backpack inside the door, kicked off his sneakers, and padded up to his room, powering his computer on out of habit more than anything on his way to lie down.

He settled back against his pillow thought about Patrick, about how restless he'd been since missing him on Saturday. Carl had noticed, of course, and they talked about it; Carl was trying to give him a little space to figure things out, but Finn could feel his own distress impacting Carl as well.

It all just pretty much sucked.

He got up, scraped his chair back from the desk, and tucked his frame into the empty space as he opened his browser and clicked on his email account, the one that he used as Christopher.

At the top was an email, sent that morning. From Patrick.

Just reading the header was enough to make him more relaxed. He could feel the jittery energy flowing out of his head, making him tingly all over. He knew that feeling. He knew what it meant, and what would probably happen to him if he didn't do anything about it. _I'd better take an ibuprofen now, _he thought, and sighed. _I guess a headache's inevitable._

He read fast, taking in half the words. Then he read again, slower, his brain two steps ahead thinking out his actions.

Patrick was in Columbus. Or, he had been that morning.

He hit _Reply_, and typed a response as fast as he could.

_Date: Wed Jan 27, 2010_  
_From: patrick.2010 at gmail dot com_  
_To: christopherincolumbus at gmail dot com  
Subject: Re: your message at Java the Hut_

_Where are you now? I could be in Columbus in 2 hours, if you want to meet. Talk, maybe have dinner?_

_I'm leaving now, don't reply to this. Call me (419) 683-1201._

_-Christopher_

He logged off his email, but left the computer on, and fired off texts to Puck, Kurt, and Carl to let them know where he was going before hopping into Puck's truck and heading off towards Columbus.

He never heard from Patrick, which made him feel a little foolish, driving all the way down to Columbus on a whim for some kid he barely knew. He wondered what Tess would have said about that. At the very least, he supposed that he could talk with Irene a little; maybe she had a better handle on Patrick than Finn did.

He parallel parked carefully on the street outside of Java the Hut, locked the truck, and stood on the sidewalk for a minute, trying to settle himself enough to walk through the door.

The light was warm in the late afternoon, and there were a handful of customers scattered at tables, reading or working on computers as they drank their coffees. Irene was at the counter, wiping it down with a damp cloth. She looked up as he stepped into the room.

"Hot chocolate?" she asked, pulling a large cup off the stack by the milk steamer and pumping chocolate into the bottom before he could reply.

"Please," he said, leaning against the counter. "Thank you for passing my message along."

"Ah," she said over the sound of the steamer. "You got his email, huh? That boy's been wound tighter than a spring all day long."

"I wrote back, told him I was coming." He turned and glanced around the room again. "I missed him, didn't I?"

Irene topped his drink with a mound of whipped cream and a healthy drizzle of chocolate syrup. "Nah," she said, pushing his cup across the counter. "He's been here all day. Try the men's room."

Finn reached for his wallet, waited for Irene to ring in his drink, but she just patted his arm. "It's on the house today, honey. Just-" she broke off and held his gaze. "Be careful, okay? That boy... he's more fragile than he looks."

"I know," Finn said, even though he hadn't known it until right then. "I'll be careful. I promise."

He sipped at his hot chocolate and walked slowly toward the men's room, calling out as he opened the door. "Patrick? It's me-"

He stopped, the door half-open behind him and his cup shaking in his hand. Patrick was hunched over the sink, tapping something on the countertop with a razorblade, and when he looked up at Finn his eyes were large and guilty.

Finn's mind went reeling; He set his cup down on the counter and reached over, grabbing the razor and throwing it in the trash. His next move was towards Patrick's wrist, taking it hard in his hand and pulling the other boy upright.

"What the hell?" he growled, using his height and his body to propel Patrick around and back towards the door. "Don't you know that shit can _kill_ you?"

Patrick gasped as his back hit the door, and Finn felt him go instantly still. He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper, because he didn't want to scare Patrick. Not exactly. But this stuff... his mother had always told him that the worst thing he could do was to try drugs, and she'd actually told him more than he'd learned in health class in school. He didn't just know what happened, he was _scared_ of what drugs could do.

"It's not the first time you've done it, is it?" he asked, keeping his voice even. Patrick hesitated, and Finn barked, "Answer me."

"N-no," Patrick stuttered. "I've been... using for a couple months now. Since... since November."

"How often?"

"Maybe... a couple times a week. But I can stop, I really -"

"That's right." Finn nodded decisively, and took the boy's chin in his hand, forcing their eyes to connect. Patrick was still as stone under his gaze, his eyes wide and stricken. "You can stop. And you're going to, _right now._ Do you hear me?"

"I - yes." Even with that admission, Finn could feel the tension pouring off of Patrick, his body letting go under Finn's hands. He let out a shuddering breath, still staring up at Finn. "I want to... I mean, I don't want to do it anymore, I just... don't be mad, please, I need..."

Finn drew in a surprised breath at the awareness in Patrick's eyes. He'd seen the neediness before, but this? _This_ was new. Patrick _knew_ what this was all about, now. He knew, and... he wanted it. All of Finn's anger and frustration slipped away, leaving only a desire to make it better.

"I'm not mad, Patrick," Finn said. He took his hand. "I know, it's hard to do it on your own. And... I can help with that. If you want."

The relieved, grateful look Patrick gave him was like perfect nourishment to Finn's own heart. "God. You would?"

Finn nodded. "If you'll let me. It's a little... well, unusual..."

"I know," Patrick replied softly. He stared at their joined hands. "Irene explained it to me. The - the discipline. I think... I think I want it?" Finn saw his eyes glittering with unshed tears. "I'm scared, though."

"You don't have to be scared, man. I'll take care of it." Finn touched Patrick's shoulder, and watched him yearning toward him, just so needy and hurting that Finn couldn't do anything but take him in his arms and hold him. "You're going to be all right."

Patrick leaned his weight against Finn, letting him hold him up. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, muffled against Finn's shirt.

Finn had to smile to himself, thinking of where he'd started, these few months ago. "Because I've taken care of other guys, like this. Because I've got somebody, too, who takes care of me."

"You - ?" Patrick jerked back, his hazel eyes wide. Then understanding dawned. "Derek."

"Yes," Finn nodded. "You, uh, probably know by now that that's not his real name."

Patrick nodded, returning his gaze thoughtfully. Then he added, "Patrick's not my real name either."

"Oh," Finn said. "Yeah. Christopher... well, it's my middle name. My dad's name. He died in the military, when I was a baby."

"I'm sorry," Patrick said softly. "My dad - um. He lives in Columbus with his partner. He's gay, too."

"Really?" Finn was kind of intrigued by that idea. "I always wondered what my dad would have thought, to find out I'm gay. If he would be ashamed of me, or embarrassed or angry or proud. I guess I'll never know."

"I'm sure he'd be proud," Patrick said, then blushed and looked at the floor. "I mean... you're so... together. I can't imagine he would think less of you."

Finn thought he probably shouldn't be so pleased to have Patrick admiring him, and he knew it wasn't necessarily true, but the comment made him felt warm inside. He smiled gently at the boy. "This, what we're doing now. It's helping?"

Patrick nodded vigorously. "Just having you here, touching me. It... I feel so much calmer, like I can focus. Like things aren't so impossible."

Finn could feel it, but he could also still feel a lot of busy, uncertain energy flowing through Patrick. He ran a hand through Patrick's hair, along the back of his neck, down his back, and finally rested it, heavy and deliberate, at the base of his spine. Patrick's breath caught, and he made a noise of desperate anticipation.

"This is how things have been, with... my boys," Finn said. He tried not to feel like a total poser, as Patrick gazed up at him with adoring eyes, but he figured this was not the time or place to explain to Patrick about how it had been with Puck at the beginning and how they were now. "I'm in charge, now. When you need help, when you're lost or upset or if you can't figure out what to do, you come to me. I'm not inviting you; I'm telling you. This is what you do. If you don't, there will be consequences."

"Consequences," Patrick murmured, and glanced up at Finn, taking a deep breath. "A spanking?"

Finn nodded solemnly. "Sometimes."

Patrick was silent, thinking it over. "Does that really work?" he asked, knitting his brow.

"It really does," Finn said. It was still kind of amazing to him, how much of an effect it really had, when he did it with Kurt, and when Carl did it for him. And thinking about how things used to be with Puck - he tried not to let those memories distract him too much from what was going on here.

_It's different,_ he told himself. Patrick wasn't his boyfriend, for one thing. He wasn't exactly sure how that was going to work, but the fact was, Patrick needed something from him, and he wanted to give it to him. Then he thought of another thing that was different.

"I'm not going to be there to help take care of you, at home, at school," Finn began.

"Dalton," Patrick said. He shifted a little where he stood. "I'm at Dalton Academy, in Westerville."

Finn paused, blinking, then nodded, holding Patrick a little closer, stroking his back in rhythm. "All right. At Dalton. But I know things can work, long distance. My... best friend has an arrangement like this. The man who takes care of him lives in California. They talk every day, and have occasional visits. And it works for them. So I know it's not ideal, but I believe I can do something for you."

Patrick leaned his head against Finn's chest with a troubled sigh. "Why..." He shook his head, and Finn touched his back again. "Why would you want to... bother with me?" he said finally. "You have a boyfriend. I feel like I can't be anything but a..." His sigh twisted Finn's heart a little tighter.

"A what?" Finn had to ask.

The last words came out in a whisper. "A... a burden."

He couldn't help it; Finn laughed, and he felt Patrick go stiff under his touch. _Mistake,_ he chided himself, but he moved forward, taking Patrick's biceps firmly in two hands, and held him at arm's length.

"This, what you're feeling," Finn said clearly, not leaving any room for confusion. "The way you're wanting me, to take care of this, to handle the hard stuff. _I_ want to _do it _for you. I need that. I need it, as much as you need it." His hands tightened, and Patrick's body went slack, his eyes flickering away.

"Look at me," Finn commanded, and Patrick's gaze snapped back up to his, unblinking. His jaw wobbled, then firmed, and the tears in his eyes did not fall. Finn felt unprecedented pride at this. _As if it had anything to do with me._ He took a calming breath, then took Patrick's jaw in one hand. Patrick shrank back just a little, then all at once, he relaxed, letting Finn hold him up.

"I want this," said Finn. "I'm here, asking you. Do you want me to take it from you?"

"Yes," Patrick whispered.

The word sent a shiver down Finn's spine. He held him more firmly. "Do you know what you need?"

"I- I th-think so. B-but I'm scared." Finn could feel Patrick starting to tense, to fight him.

"Tell me," Finn said, never moving his eyes from Patrick's.

"I think... um... god, I think I need... _a spanking_." His last words were so soft Finn had to strain to hear them. He nodded at the door.

"All right, then... you'd better lock the door. We don't want anyone interrupting us."

"Okay," Patrick said, turning to flip the lock on the bathroom door. It settled with a muted click. Patrick spun back around to face Finn.

Finn tried to keep his eyes soft. This boy looked terrified, and that wasn't what he wanted. And yet...

"You're not going to take any more of those drugs, not anymore," he said, holding out his hands. Patrick took them, clutching them tight.

"No," he promised. "No, I won't."

"If you feel like you need them, you'll call me, right away. In the middle of the night, whatever; I don't care. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Patrick promised, his voice shaking.

Finn nodded. He believed Patrick meant it, but he knew it wasn't going to be easy. "You shouldn't have taken them to begin with."

"I know. I hadn't ever done anything like that before November." Patrick's guilt was palpable.

He touched Patrick's chest, over his heart. "So. This is for that. This is me, taking care of that. After today, you won't feel bad about it anymore. You can put it down, and you start tomorrow, all over again. Okay?"

"Okay," the boy nodded. Finn could hardly believe the trust Patrick was placing in him, so readily, so easily. _Like I was trustworthy,_ he thought, and the idea buoyed him, gave him courage. _I won't let him down._

Finn pulled the plastic chair away from the wall, settling it in the middle of the bathroom, and sat down, drawing Patrick closer to him. "Take your jeans down, and lean over my lap, here. I'll hold you up. Don't worry. It's going to be fine."

"Is it going to _hurt?_" Patrick asked, barely hesitating as he unbuttoned his jeans.

Finn's lips twisted. He laid a hand on Patrick's waist. "Yes. But sometimes that's important, too."

"Okay," Patrick nodded resolutely. He leaned over, and Finn guided him into position, taking his weight on his lap. With quick, efficient movements, he drew his boxers down over his knees, holding him firmly in place with one hand. Finn could feel his breath moving in and out, rapid and tense.

"You're going to want to relax, as much as you can," he said gently. "The more you try to resist, the more it's going to hurt. Just let it go."

"I'll try," Patrick said through gritted teeth. Finn chuckled, stroking his back through his shirt. Slowly, he felt the tension ease, and Patrick's body folded into Finn's.

"That's it," Finn said. He slid his hand down lower, resting just above his bare buttocks. "You're doing so well. There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm here to take care of you."

Patrick nodded, letting out a sigh, and Finn felt a sense of accomplishment, knowing he'd made the right call, handling Patrick this way. He could feel Patrick's tension flooding away, even before the first stroke. _He needed this,_ Finn thought, _as much as I do. We're helping each other. _

"The cocaine, Patrick." Finn put one firm hand on Patrick's behind, putting pressure on the space between his two cheeks. He felt Patrick's shudder, and tucked his other arm around him, holding him closer, supporting him. "You're letting that go, now."

"Y-yes," Patrick said with a sigh.

Finn let his hand rest there, then took it away. He touched Patrick's dark curls, feeling a sudden surge of fondness. "Is there anything else you need to let go of?"

"Blaine," he said, his breath catching in his throat. "My real name is Blaine."

_Oh._ Finn swallowed, opened his mouth, and said, softly, "I'm... I'm Finn."

Patrick - _Blaine_ - laughed softly. "Nice to meet you, Finn," he said from the vicinity of Finn's calves.

Finn successfully held back his laughter, but he was sure his voice was tinged with amusement. "Likewise, Blaine. And thank you, for that trust. I'll take care of that, too."

He found himself drawing into himself, gathering his focus and directing it to a space in the center of _Blaine's_ back, feeling the importance, the gravity of the situation, even in the midst of their levity. _Finn, and Blaine,_ he thought, and he felt better, more settled.

His hand came down, hard, in the center of Blaine's buttocks, making him jump and cry out. "It's all right," he soothed, even as he landed another stroke, and another. The pale surface of Blaine's skin was immediately red, but Finn knew the color didn't really indicate how hard he'd been hitting. Blaine moaned and shifted in Finn's grasp.

"Let it go," he urged. Each stroke landed, sharp and ringing in the stark, bare lavatory, with nothing to muffle the retorts or Blaine's discomfort. "You're doing just fine."

"God," Blaine gasped, squirming. "It - it _hurts."_

"Give it up, Blaine," Finn said sharply, and with the next series of swats, Blaine started to cry.

"I'm- I'm _sorry_," Blaine gasped, sniffling through tears. "I w-won't t-take the coke anymore - please, you can stop, I won't - "

"I'm right here," he said, a little more gently. "You're so good. Such a good boy."

Blaine shuddered against him, and Finn felt the last bit of tension flood from his body. "Oh," he whimpered, "oh, God, Finn."

"Yes." Finn stopped, taking his hand from Blaine's red, raw flesh and wrapping it around his shoulder, pulling him onto his lap. Blaine curled into Finn's body, shaking with release, and Finn held him close, rocking him gently. "Yes... that's it. Just let it go."

They sat like that for some time while Blaine clung to him, his breath slowing over long minutes, until at last he lifted his head from Finn's chest. "Tissues," he said gravely, shaking his head at the tear stains on Finn's shirt.

"I'll do you one better," Finn said, shifting slightly to be able to reach his pocket. "My - uh, friend makes me carry a handkerchief. He says they're softer than tissues."

Blaine took the square of cloth, monogrammed with Kurt's script _K, _using it to dab at his cheeks and eyes. At Finn's nod, he blew his nose. Finn put his hand out for it, but Blaine shook his head. "Please, let me. I'll return it on Saturday."

"That's fine," Finn said, smiling at Blaine's gesture. Then he paused, hesitating. "Actually, I'm not sure if I'll be here on Saturday. Friday's my birthday, and I'm not sure what Derek's planning. But - if I can, I'll be here." He touched Blaine's arm. "I _want_ to be here."

Blaine gave him a hopeful smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He helped Blaine sit up, a little wobbly, and supported him to minimize the pressure on his sore behind. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Blaine said, "but better, I think. Not as much like I'm losing my grip, you know?" Finn watched him look around the room, blinking, testing his legs, and he helped him pull up his shorts and jeans. He was a little surprised to find that neither one of them seemed embarrassed by the situation. It felt very familiar to Finn, but even this first experience with Blaine was easy, comfortable. _Like we'd been doing it all our lives,_ he mused, and he drew Blaine into a hug.

"I'm glad," he said, holding him close. "You deserve that."

"I do?" Blaine sounded like he didn't believe Finn at all.

"Yeah," Finn insisted. He leaned in, on impulse, and kissed him on the temple. "You really do."

"I don't really know how to let myself trust that." Blaine scuffed his shoe on the tile floor, and let his eyes drift down to track the motion. "I guess I just see myself as this weird, messed up kid, you know?"

"Yeah," Finn said, softly. "I guess we all feel like that at one time or another. But I think that _everyone_ deserves to be happy, to feel good about who they are. Especially when the world's sure we're wrong. You need somebody on your side to remind you you're _not._ I've got lots of people like that."

Blaine shook his head. "I don't have very many people like that. Or at least, it never feels like I have enough people."

"Well..." Finn touched his cheek, smiling. "Now you've got one more."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four - **following episode 1.16 Home

Blaine's shoulders hurt from too many hours hunched over his laptop, but he had nothing to prove for it. The half-finished English paper staring back at him was due on Friday, and it sure as hell wasn't going to write itself, but all he could do was think about the wanting to reach into his top desk drawer and pull out the little envelope.

The little envelope with the last of his cocaine.

Who would know, really?

But when he did open the drawer, he could see Finn's face, his words, _I'm not asking you, I'm telling you._

He rubbed his hands over his eyes, felt his contacts gritty under his eyelids. Thought about Finn's _other_ words. _Call me_.

He picked up his phone with shaking hands. It seemed like a lot to ask of someone who was practically a stranger. _How can he be a stranger after what he - what __**you**__ - did?_ Finn wasn't a stranger, of course. And god, Blaine _needed_ him.

He picked up on the third ring, and Blaine heard rustling and muffled voices before Finn's slightly groggy one was in his ear. "B- Patrick? - what's going on?"

"I want- um. I have a little bit left. The cocaine? And I want to-" He couldn't make himself admit wanting to use it, because that made him feel like he had a problem, and he didn't _want_ to have a problem.

"Hang on... Patrick. Okay." He sounded more alert, now. "Just - don't do anything, all right? Tell me what's going on. Where are you?"

"I'm in my room. Sitting at my desk trying to write this stupid paper that's due Friday. But I can't do it. All I can think about is the cocaine. And I'm kind of, um." He knew nobody could hear him but he let his voice fall to a whisper anyway. "I can't stop thinking about what we did, and maybe I'm freaking out a little."

"That's okay. I got it." There was a burst of muffled conversation. "I can be there in... two hours. Can you give me directions? I'm... um, I'm in Lima."

_Shit_. Lima? "Oh. Okay. Yeah, directions." Blaine rattled off the details of the drive, and listened vaguely to Finn's reassurances that everything would be okay, heard himself promise that he wouldn't do anything until Finn arrived, and felt his thumb disconnect the call.

And now all he could think of was _someone in Lima is going to find out._

He had two hours to fill, so he started by ditching his contacts for his glasses. That took no time at all, but it got him out of his room for a few minutes, and his head felt a little clearer, so instead of settling back in at his desk he tugged a Dalton hoodie on over his sleep pants and t-shirt, shoved his iPod and keycard into the big pouch pocket and headed outside.

It was cold. Too cold to really be out without a coat, but the slight sting of the night air in his lungs gave him something to focus on, first the bite of it as he breathed in, and then the little cloud in front of his face with every exhale. He just sat there, watching that cloud, not letting himself think about Lima, or the repercussions of doing . . . _what he and Finn were doing_ . . . with someone from _home_, until Finn arrived.

* * *

Finn sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone, not even sure how to handle this. It was Kurt who put a hand on his bare shoulder and kissed him, and Puck who slid an arm around his waist.

"He's having a hard time?" Kurt murmured.

"Yeah," Finn sighed. "Not just about . . . you know. He's got other stuff going on, too."

"It's all part of that, dude," Puck said. "You know what he needs. You'd better take Kurt's car this time, though - my truck's having trouble, and that would suck, to be halfway to Columbus and have it break down."

"Westerville," Finn said absently. "He's at school in Westerville."

Puck waved a hand. "Whatever. You don't want to be breaking down in the middle of the night. Can he take the Navigator, Kurt?"

Kurt nodded. "The keys are in the front pocket of my messenger bag," he said softly.

Kurt watched Finn get dressed in silence. Finn tried to give him as much space as he could to work it out in his head before he brought it up, but he knew Kurt wasn't feeling entirely easy about where things were going with Patrick. Puck just yawned and rolled back over, pulling the covers over himself, but Finn saw Kurt waiting, thinking. Eventually he took him by the hand and drew him, somewhat unwilling, into the bathroom.

"This isn't going to change things between _us_," he said, trying to pull him into his arms, but Kurt stiffened and turned away from his embrace.

"I'm not thinking about that," Kurt muttered.

_Yes, you are,_ thought Finn, but he wasn't going to get into a stupid back-and-forth with Kurt. Instead he kissed him on the forehead and waited for Kurt to finish pouting and look up at him.

"I love you, Kurt." Finn watched his eyes soften, and smiled at him until he thawed.

"Yes, I know. I just don't know if I can handle... _one more person._ This is a lot, already."

Finn nodded soberly. "I know how it feels. But he really needs me, and I know I can help. It gives me something, you know?"

"I know," he repeated, somewhat more testily, running his hands through his hair. "I just . . ." he sighed, and turned away. "What about what _I_ need?" His voice was sad, and when he turned back to Finn his eyes were downcast.

"Don't worry about that, baby." Finn smiled and touched his face. "I'll give you what you need."

"But you're _leaving_." Kurt was trying not to whine, but Finn could hear it seeping out of the edges of Kurt's words.

Finn thought. "It's only ten o'clock in California. Why don't you call Adam? I'm sure he'd be happy to talk to you, and he always makes you feel... I don't know. Like you deserve to feel. Special."

Kurt's faint, fond smile and nod told Finn that his instincts were right. "Yeah," Kurt said, toying with the edge of his shirt. "Adam could do that for me." He caught Finn's eyes, and held them for a minute. "But don't think that gets you off the hook for later."

Finn raised an eyebrow, catching Kurt's chin firmly in his fingers. "Oh, yeah," he said. "You can bet on it."

"Good," Kurt nodded. He leaned in close to Finn with a kind of wicked smile, tucking his mouth right close to Finn's ear. "I can think of something you could do with that flogger," he said, his voice low, before he turned and left the bathroom.

Finn bit back a growl, because _damn_ if Kurt didn't know how to turn him on. He wondered, as he tried to compose himself for the drive, whether having to endure two hours in a car with a persistent hard on was his punishment for leaving in the first place.

* * *

Columbus was supposed to have been his safe place, Blaine mused as he paced the parking lot, and he had to go and get into a _situation_ with someone from fucking Lima. _Just perfect_, he muttered under his breath. He was going to have to be _really_ careful now, because if he let even one more piece of himself slip, he'd be out there exposed without even the protection of his Patrick persona.

It was a scary place to be, reliant on Finn that way without any kind of boundaries at all. Blaine shivered in the cold, and shifted to tuck his legs under him in a makeshift barrier against the cold of the wall. His head was spinning with lots of things, Lima being the biggest, but the muffled voices on the other end of the phone surging to a close second. Had he caught Finn with Derek? Maybe interrupted . . . _something_. He blushed at the thought, and tried to push it away, because if he was going to keep doing - _this_ - with Finn, he couldn't let Finn think it was about sex. Not that he didn't _want_ some experience beyond some kisses and the night at Masque, but he knew already that what he needed and wanted from Finn had nothing at all to do with sex.

_Except_, he thought, _what if I could have this __**and**__ sex?_ _Or have this be a __**part**__ of sex_?

And fuck if _that_ idea didn't just about stop him in his tracks.

His breath was suddenly fast and shallow, his mind absolutely reeling, and maybe he was ignoring the fact that he'd gotten almost instantly hard at the idea of some boy holding him down, his hand coming down hard onto his bare behind, and then _- god _- sliding into him.

Blaine bit back a whimper and debated running back up to his room to _take care of things_ before Finn arrived when he was interrupted by the light crunch of tires. A spotless black Navigator was inching into the visitor's lot, and Blaine was very suddenly out of all kinds of options. He couldn't run; he _had_ to face Finn and accept his help, and he had to hope that Finn wasn't going to notice his absolute inability to control his damn fucking hormones.

Finn unfolded his long legs from the driver's seat, regarding Blaine with surprise, and maybe a little bit of disappointment. "You've been waiting out here a while?"

"Since we hung up. I couldn't . . ." He waved his hand in the direction of the dorm. "I had to get out of my room. Couldn't breathe."

Finn nodded slowly. "I can understand that. But..." He touched Blaine's arm, and Blaine flinched away a little. "You're cold. It's too chilly for you to be out without a coat."

Blaine sighed. "I needed to _feel_. The cold was what was available. Well..." He shrugged. "The cold or the coke. But I promised you I wouldn't, so... cold it was."

Finn looked like he might step in and hug him for a moment, but he shifted from one foot to another, and eventually the moment passed. "Come on, then," said Finn. "Let's go inside."

He glanced around them as they entered the residence hall. "This place is pretty fancy. Private school, right? You stay here overnight, like a college dorm?"

"Yeah," Blaine nodded, trying to keep his voice and footsteps quiet. He didn't want to wake the dorm supervisor, because that would get him the kind of trouble he didn't need. "My dad lives in Columbus, and I see him most weekends. But not my mom as much, not since the divorce."

Finn followed him up the sweeping staircase to the second floor landing. "Your mom doesn't live around here?"

"No," Blaine shook his head. He _couldn't_ elaborate on that or he'd give himself away, but he hoped Finn knew enough people whose parents had divorced that he wouldn't push things. Luckily, Finn seemed to take the hint, and he just nodded.

"You don't mind not living at home? I think I'd miss my mom."

"Home wasn't always a good place for me." Blaine checked to make sure the hallway was empty, then led Finn down the hall. He held the door to his room as Finn slipped in first, shutting and locking it behind them. "This is better. Not perfect," he admitted, "but better."

Finn nodded again, soberly. He sat on the bed. "It sounded on the phone like you're still not really in a good place, Blaine. Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

Blaine tried to settle the anxiety in his stomach with a deep breath, but it didn't really help. "Like I said, I have this paper. And it's not hard or anything, I just don't _want_ to write it. I was working on it before, and just . . . the cocaine was right there, in my desk drawer. I could have reached out and just taken it. I mean, I _couldn't_, because I'd promised you, but once I started thinking about it I couldn't stop."

He cocked his head. "What did it make you think about?"

Blaine closed his eyes. "I guess... it's the feeling like everything is _right_ for a little while, like _I'm_ okay. Like I'm not wrong, for being myself."

He felt Finn's hand on his arm, and he shuddered. "There's nothing wrong with you, Blaine," said Finn.

"Maybe if enough people tell me that I'll start to believe it." He traced his fingers over the slight bump in his wrist where the bone was calcified under his skin; when the cast had come off, his hand had been skinny and weak, but now nobody in his new life even knew what had happened to him. "The first time I went on a date with another boy, we got attacked and ended up in the ER."

"Oh. God." Finn looked positively ill at the thought. "That... that really sucks. Are you okay?"

"It was over a year ago," he said, but Finn shook his head. He touched the same spot where Blaine's own fingers had landed.

"I didn't ask if you were okay then. I'm guessing you... weren't?" He met Blaine's eyes, and he felt compelled to nod.

"Broken wrist," Blaine admitted. "A mild concussion. The other guy, my friend? He got it much worse. And my school, well. They were decidedly unhelpful, so... here I am." He fought the word that wanted to fall off his tongue, because he'd chosen Dalton, as much as he'd had any kind of a choice. "Sometimes I feel like I've been... exiled, because I couldn't fit out there in the world."

"Yeah." Finn grimaced. "I have a friend who goes through stuff like that, at our school. But I was thinking, it seemed like you still were holding onto something about this experience." He looked closely at Blaine. "So... are you okay?"

Blaine swallowed hard, and blinked, and he realized he was fucking _crying_. "Clearly, I'm pretty far from okay," he said with a bitter laugh. "I don't know if I've _ever_ been okay."

"All right. All right... come here. Come on." Finn opened up his arms, beckoning Blaine forward. With Finn on the bed, Blaine was even a little bit taller than he was, but Finn pulled him onto his lap anyway. It made Blaine feel like a little kid, but at the same time, it was just about the safest feeling he'd ever had.

"Why are you doing this?" Blaine's voice was muffled in Finn's sweatshirt. "I mean, I'm just some messed up kid you met in a coffeehouse. Why would you do any of this for _me?_"

Finn's hand stroked his hair. "Because, once, somebody did it for me. And I had no idea how much I needed it until I got it. He didn't have to, either. He said that guys - men - like us, we need this. Even more than regular guys do. Because we were never taught rules about our kind of relationships, the friendships between guys who like guys. And we need each other, and we need... to be close. To take care of each other."

Blaine's voice came out hushed. "You really don't mind? Taking care of me?"

"No, Blaine. I really don't. I get something out of it, too." His smile was so kind, it almost hurt. "I really like you, and I don't like to see you hurting. But it's more than that. When I take care of you, I get back what I give you. It's pretty awesome, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Blaine shifted, and Finn's hand was settled at the base of his spine with light pressure. Blaine pushed back against his touch a little, and Finn's voice was low in his ear.

"Are you ready for me to take care of it all now?" he asked. Blaine nodded. Finn pressed a little harder. "I need you to tell me. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Blaine said, his voice startlingly clear. He could feel himself calming already, at the thought of it. Finn smiled again, looking almost - proud. But that didn't make any sense, did it?

"Come on. Let me help you." Finn waited while Blaine slid his pajama pants off, and helped him lie down across his knees. It was familiar enough by now, but somehow today it felt different. Blaine was aware of Finn's touch across his back, the way he smelled, and it was all distracting him. He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to concentrate on the relief he knew was coming at the end.

Finn's hand paused on Blaine's bare bottom. "Tell me what you want to let go."

"I don't know," Blaine said, and he _knew_ he sounded sullen and cranky.

"Yes, you do." Finn's hand was pressing, firm and still, and Blaine took in a breath because he also knew what would happen if he didn't give Finn _something_. Still, he didn't say a word.

"I'll get it out of you one way or another," Finn said, his hand suddenly gone, and Blaine braced himself for the first smack against his bottom. But it was like time was suspended or something, or maybe Finn was giving him one last chance to tell everything. The absence of Finn's hand made Blaine feel like he'd lost his moorings. He sensed the panic rising inside him.

"I shouldn't want this," Blaine cried. "It's wrong to want it. To _need _it."

Blaine actually heard Finn's hand connect with his skin a half-second before he felt it, like his body was lagging behind his brain, and the first contact shocked him back into himself. "Why shouldn't you want this?" Finn asked, his hand coming down fast and insistent. "It helps you, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Blaine said through gritted teeth. Three more swats increased the burn on his bare ass. "It helps."

Finn leaned over his prone form, getting close enough to his ear that Blaine could feel the heat of his breath. His words came fast and urgent. "Then stop fighting it. Tell me, Blaine. What do you want to give up?"

"I'm scared," Blaine said, the words bringing unexpected tears to his eyes. "I'm scared all the fucking time."

"Of what?"

"People knowing that I like this. That I need this. People at h-home . . ."

"Home?" Finn must have heard the catch in his voice, because he latched onto that word. _Damn, why was he so intuitive? _"Tell me about your home."

He let out a hard laugh, and grunted in a breath as Finn continued to lay smack after smack against him. "Nowhere feels like home anymore."

"Blaine." Finn sounded gentle now, far kinder than Blaine deserved. Blaine squeezed his eyes shut against that persuasive tone. "That's not an answer."

"I _can't_." Blaine cried out, then, overwhelmed from the sensation and all the thoughts screaming in his head.

"It's all right. You don't have to tell me." But Finn wasn't letting up, and with each impact of his palm Blaine felt the compulsion to _tell, tell the truth, just tell the truth._

"I want to," he said.

"Whenever you're ready. I'm listening."

Blaine closed his eyes, felt Finn's hand come down more slowly, but no less powerfully. He took a deep breath. Telling Finn his secrets seemed to be something he couldn't really control. "Lima," he said finally, and Finn's hand paused briefly before resuming its motion, this time rubbing gentle circles over Blaine's hot flesh.

"Lima," Finn sighed, pulling Blaine up and wrapping him in his arms. Blaine sighed in response, and nestled himself closer into the solidity of Finn's body. It felt good, helped settle him, and Finn seemed to notice, holding him tighter.

"You like that?" he asked, and Blaine hummed happily.

"Yeah," he said.

He could feel Finn nodding against his hair. "Yeah. K - um. One of my boys does, too. I usually have to hold him really tight. He feels stress all over his body, and this helps."

"He's right," Blaine sighed. "It really does help." The energy that was always zinging around his body was blissfully still, and whether it was from the spanking or the way Finn was holding him, Blaine wasn't sure. All he knew was that it was a relief, to feel calm and cared for and safe.

They sat in silence for several minutes, the kind of silence Blaine had always experienced as strained or difficult, but with Finn, it wasn't at all.

When Blaine finally broke the silence with his words, they flowed as easily as though he was writing them in his journal. "My paper, the one I can't make myself finish, it's about Germany between the world wars. Sometimes I feel so behind here, because it's my second school in two years, and I missed some time last year after . . . well. After the beating." He closed his eyes briefly, and he felt Finn's hand on his back, warm and comforting. Blaine let himself draw courage from that touch before going on.

"But anyway, there's so much interesting stuff about the way gay culture was thriving there, and it makes me really angry that gays were just as condemned as Jews were, and it scares me that even though things are moving so fast here, towards acceptance, we could still end up like Nazi Germany."

Blaine hesitated, waiting for Finn to respond the same way he was used to _everyone_ responding when he went off on a tangent like that, an _oh, Blaine_ or an eyeroll, or a look that said _please, just stop before you hurt something_. But nothing like that happened.

Instead, Finn drew in a slow breath. His arms around Blaine's back tightened. "You've really thought this through. I mean... that's a really intense idea." He almost sounded like he _admired_ what Blaine was saying.

Feeling that Finn wasn't silently judging him made Blaine want to keep talking. "I mean, I can't go into all of that in my paper. That's not the assignment. But it really _bothers_ me, because it feels like sometimes nobody is paying attention. To anyone or anything."

He felt the rumbling vibration of Finn's throat against his cheek as he spoke. "So you want to... what, make a difference?"

Blaine shook his head as best he could within the confines of Finn's arms. "I don't know. I just . . ." he sighed, trying to settle his thoughts before trying again. "Growing up the way I did, _where_ I did, with the parents I had, I never felt like I was a part of anything. I always felt like I was outside of things, and even here I'm not _quite_ with it. I just want to belong somewhere. I want to matter."

"Blaine... hey. Come on. You _do_ matter." Finn pulled back far enough for Blaine to meet his gaze. He looked solemn and earnest, enough that Blaine couldn't help but believe that Finn actually meant what he said. "You really think you don't?"

"I've never been enough," Blaine said, wanting to look away but unable to do so. "Not just by being me. It's like I'm always _trying_, but I never quite get there."

Finn tilted his head with a curious smile. "Where are you trying to... _get,_ exactly? I mean - what are you trying to prove? Who do you need to be enough _for?"_

"My parents. Teachers. Friends. _Everyone_. Maybe . . ." Blaine worried at his lip with his teeth, and tried to hold back the thoughts that made him hurt. "Maybe if everyone else loves me enough, I'll learn how to love myself."

"I don't think it works that way, exactly." Finn touched his chin gently. "I think maybe you need to realize you're pretty awesome, just the way you are, and it doesn't matter at all what other people think."

"Is that how you are? I mean, do you worry about what would happen if people knew about you and, um. Derek?" Blaine didn't even know why he'd _asked_ such a personal question. He tried not to blush, and hoped that Finn wouldn't think he was being too forward.

Finn seemed to refocus, and he leaned back a little bit more from Blaine. "Well... things between the two of us are pretty private, at least in Lima. They have to be, because of... of who he is, and what he does, in his regular life. I mean, I'm only a sophomore."

Blaine nodded. "At Ohio State?"

Finn stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed. "Blaine... I'm a sophomore in _high school."_

Blaine tilted his head and looked at Finn, _hard_. He grabbed onto the strongest pieces of information he could reach, _Finn_ and _Lima_, and pulled on them - and suddenly he was on a sunny playground with scraped knees, Davey pressing a yellow t-shirt into his hands, and a sandy-haired boy scolding him for jumping.

He kept looking, and heard Santana's words, and Davey's, about _Finn Hudson_ and how he was always so _good_.

_Shit._

"You - um. You go to McKinley?" Blaine licked at his lips, and wished he had something to drink because his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

"Yeah," Finn said, furrowing his brow.

Blaine poked at his comforter with his finger, let his voice lower to a whisper. "I would have gone there, if I'd stayed in public school. But I, um... went to Catholic, last year."

"You went to - ?" Finn's eyes narrowed into a perplexed stare. "_You_... went to...?" The way Finn was examining him, Blaine felt like a creature in a glass cage. "You're from _Lima?_ But I thought..."

And then Finn's eyes widened, a fraction at a time, until they were round and his eyebrows were high on his forehead. Blaine looked away, cringing.

"You," Finn breathed. He raised one finger and pointed it at Blaine. "I know you."

Blaine shook his head, closing his eyes tight. "No, you don't."

"No, I _do,"_ he insisted. "You're... you're the boy from the park. On the swings. You and... and Dave?" Blaine could hear the distaste in his voice. "Are you guys still friends?"

"No," he whispered. "No. We're not." He folded in on himself, holding his elbows in his hands. _Nobody knows who I am. Stop looking at me._

"_Blaine."_

It was like being caught by the curl of a whip and _jerked_ out of the shelter of his own arms. Suddenly Blaine was entirely exposed to Finn's intense regard. Finn took Blaine's arms in his hands and gave him a tiny shake. "Come on. Look at me." Blaine's eyes shot unwillingly to Finn's, like a magnet. Finn's smile was unbearably kind.

"Stop," Blaine whimpered.

Finn shook his head. "Dude... you can't hide from me. I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't understand _why not_," Blaine said, coming close to a whine, and Finn's hands tightened.

"Hey. You need this, what I can give you. And there's nothing wrong with that. Okay? I need it, from Derek. And my boyfriends, they both need it too."

"Your... boyfriends?" Blaine paused, listening to that statement. _Finn's boyfriends? _He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, but he needed to make sure he'd heard Finn correctly. "I thought... you're with Derek? And you have two other boys you take care of, like with me?"

Finn nodded. "I do. I mean, yes. I'm with Derek, but the others, they're really my boyfriends. The three of us, together."

"Oh." Blaine wasn't sure what to say, because the first thing into his head was _and you're all okay with that?_, but _that_ didn't seem like the best thing to just blurt out, because he didn't want to seem all judgmental or anything. And who was he to judge, really, because _he_ liked getting spanked. "Three of you?" he finally squeaked, because simple questions were probably less offensive.

"The three of us, together, me and, uh... yeah. And me and Derek, we're together, and the other two guys have someone special they see sometimes, in California. So..." He scratched his neck. "I know, it sounds complicated, but... it's honest. It's our rule: no lying, no hiding."

"You were with them, tonight." It wasn't a question. Blaine knew it had to be so, that the muffled voices on Finn's end of the call had been his boyfriends. _Both_ of them. Together? Blaine wasn't sure what to do with _those_ images. "They know about me. About what we do."

He nodded again. "I told them right away. It's okay, Blaine."

"Please," Blaine asked, his voice on the edge of begging. "Don't tell them, where I'm from. That I'm from . . . _there_. People _can't_ know, Finn."

"Okay," Finn soothed, taking him back into his arms. "Shhh. It's all right. I'm not going to tell anybody, and neither are they. I only call you Patrick, with them. I don't want you to worry about that. I'll keep your secret."

"Okay," Blaine said, leaning into Finn. He felt suddenly untethered again, like he needed the contact to keep him from floating away.

"You have to be up early for classes," Finn said. "I think you'd better go to bed now. Can you leave your homework as it is, or do you have something you have to finish for tomorrow?"

"Everything else is done. Just the paper, for Friday, but I can finish it tomorrow." Blaine blinked his eyes. They were gritty and heavy, and he was suddenly _so tired_. "Sleepy," he muttered.

Finn cast around the room with his gaze, then lit on Blaine's robe, hanging on the back of the door. "Uh, why don't you go... brush your teeth and get into your pajamas?" He turned a little pink. "If you wear pajamas."

Blaine plucked at his flannel pants, and the collar of his t-shirt peeking out from under his hoodie. "Already in them," he said, tugging his sweatshirt over his head and shivering a little as the cool air of his room sent goosebumps rising on his arms.

"Oh - right. Yeah." Finn definitely looked awkward, pulling down the covers on Blaine's bed, but he gallantly waited for Blaine to lie down before drawing the covers up to his chin. He settled himself on top of the covers, against the wall, one hand on Blaine's shoulder. The silence went on for a while before Blaine turned to him.

"Don't you have school, too? It's two hours back to L- um. Home."

Finn shifted in the dimness of the room. "I'm not going anywhere. You go ahead and get some sleep. I'll be right here."

Blaine burrowed back down under the blanket, but he kept his eyes on Finn, feeling the warmth of his hand through his t-shirt. "You didn't answer my question."

Finn blew out a breath. "Yeah. My business. I can take the heat. Now go to sleep."

Blaine closed his eyes, wanting to say all kinds of things, like _don't get in trouble for me_ and _people will worry about you_, but his brain felt like cotton and he couldn't open his eyes anymore. He just felt warm and safe in the moments before he surrendered to sleep.

* * *

The dark haired boy from the club came into his dreams again, confident and a little cocky, his eyes sparkling. His hands were warm and hard and insistent, and he knew just where to touch to make Blaine gasp and shudder and arch his body for more. And Blaine kept reaching, kept trying to touch and taste and get closer to what the boy was offering him... but there was another person there, too, long-fingered hands cool and gentle even as they held Blaine's wrists, keeping him pinned against the softest sheets he'd ever felt.

"You know you want this," the phantom-voice said in his ear, like bells. "It'll feel so good, just let him take it. Trust us."

Blaine writhed under the weight of the boy, who was straddling his thighs and making it hard for him to move at all.

"You're so hot like this," the boy said, staring into his eyes even as he asked the stranger _isn't he hot like this, baby?_

"Yes," laughed the boy with the hands, "so hot, and beautiful... and _all ours."_

Blaine could feel him, changing the pressure points on his arms as he leaned in to kiss the boy from the club, and the sight of both of them above him made Blaine moan.

"I think he likes that," the mysterious voice muttered, voice full of fondness and gentle teasing. "Go ahead, sweetheart... make him scream."

Blaine bolted upright in bed, heart pounding in his throat and shaking off the phantom tightness in his limbs. There were no boys - only Finn, still on top of the covers, fully dressed and wedged between Blaine and the wall, snoring lightly. He hadn't been held down. He wasn't naked, wasn't about to be . . . _taken_.

But he was achingly, _embarrassingly_ hard.

Finn stirred, and Blaine's embarrassment was thrown into sharp relief as Finn bumped against Blaine's hip. It was obvious that he wasn't the only one who was hard. He heard Finn make a comfortable, almost-talking noise in his sleep as he tucked an arm snugly around Blaine's waist. Blaine felt a simultaneous stab of envy for Finn's lack of self-consciousness and a confusing contentment at Finn's presence beside him.

But - _no. This isn't right._ He scooted away from Finn on the bed, trying to get himself out from under Finn's confining arm without waking him up. It didn't work.

"Blaine?" Finn murmured. "What - what's wrong?"

"N-nothing," Blaine said abruptly, trying again to extricate himself from the weight of Finn's arm.

Finn's eyes snapped open, whether from Blaine's movement or something in the sound of his voice, and Blaine felt himself caught yet again under the clarity of Finn's gaze.

"What's wrong?" Finn asked again, his voice steady and firm this time.

"Dream," Blaine said, _finally_ pulling away and rubbing at his eyes in an effort to slow his heart rate. He knew if he could calm down, he'd be less . . . _obvious_.

"Bad one? Nightmare?" Finn let him sit inches away, but kept looking at him.

"Um." Blaine felt himself blush. "No."

"Oh," Finn said, grinning. "_That_ kind of dream." He cocked his head. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Blaine thought about how real the dream had been, how perfect the two boys had felt on top of him. How _right_ it had seemed, even when he couldn't understand how it was possible to want any of what he'd dreamt.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "It was, um... kind of intense."

Finn nodded. "It can happen like that, sometimes. Like, once your head gets clear your subconscious wants to tell you all kinds of sh- er, stuff. So you dream about it." He huffed out a laugh. "Mine, man... I've had some crazy ones, let me tell you."

"Are they always, um." Blaine tipped his head from side to side. "You know, _those_ kinds of dreams?"

"I dunno," Finn shrugged. "Mine are, yeah. But one of my boyfriends, he dreams about all kinds of things, and people. Stuff that hasn't happened yet, people he hasn't met yet."

"All kinds of possible futures," Blaine said, as his heart rate finally returned to normal. He was still half-hard, but it wasn't so noticeable anymore, and he felt less like he'd done something wrong, crossed some invisible line.

"I like that," Finn sighed. "All kinds of possible futures." He smiled at Blaine, and let his hand drift between them to rest atop Blaine's, trapping it lightly in a little pocket of warmth.

"You can share that, if you want, with your... your boyfriends. Especially the one who has all the dreams." Blaine wasn't sure he was ever going to understand how Finn could be so calm about having two boyfriends (_three_, he reminded himself, picturing Derek's kind smile and intense eyes). He shook his head. "How do you - _do _that, anyway?"

"Do what?" Finn's eyes were amused in the dim light of early morning. Blaine sighed. Of course, Finn was going to make him ask.

"Have so many boyfriends. That just sounds like so much work. I've never even had one boyfriend, much less two... or three." He propped himself up on one elbow. "And don't you get jealous?"

"Sometimes. I don't think any more than I did when I was trying to date one person at a time, though." He still looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"What?" Blaine had to ask.

"Oh - well." Finn grinned and shrugged. "I've got a girlfriend, too."

Blaine jerked back and stared at him. "You have a _what?"_

"Yeah, I know. She's... well, Derek thinks..." He waved it away. "Never mind. It's just more complicated. But the jealousy, it's less of an issue than I thought it was going to be." His eyes gleamed. "And there are a lot of... benefits, to having more than one."

Blaine coughed. "I bet," he said with a smirk, because Finn had left himself totally open to a little teasing.

Finn's smile widened. "Yeah," he agreed. "Those, definitely. But also, like, just ones you wouldn't expect. Like, if I can't be around, I know they've got each other, so that's kind of a relief sometimes. And, well." Finn ducked his head. "They're really cute together."

Blaine turned his hand over, and waited to see what Finn would do. He wasn't surprised when Finn laced their fingers. "Do you have a picture? Of them?" He let the question out in a rush of breath, unsure of why he'd even asked.

Finn shook his head. "I do, but I need to ask them, before I show you. They trust me, the same way you do."

Blaine nodded. "That makes sense. I wouldn't want to betray their trust."

"I know you wouldn't." Finn leaned in, and before Blaine could do anything about it, he kissed him.

Blaine just sat there, a little stunned. "I- um," he stammered, rubbing at where Finn's lips had touched his so gently. "Why?"

"Why what?" asked Finn.

He shook his head, as if to clear it. "Why did you _kiss_ me? I don't- I mean, what we do isn't about _that_."

"You're right," Finn said, his face serious. "It's not, but it _is_ about intimacy. And I want you to remember that. I _care_ about you." He held Blaine's chin firmly, so he couldn't look away. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Blaine said in a whisper, even though he didn't really. "But I need you to know that I don't want anything like _that_ from you. No more kissing."

"All right. No more kissing." Finn stroked his face one more time, then stood, stretching and yawning. "I think I better get on the road. If I'm lucky, I'll only miss first period. I shouldn't get in _too_ much trouble."

"I'm sorry," Blaine said. "You didn't have to stay."

"Yeah," Finn said, shrugging into his jacket, "I did. That's part of this, too. Taking care of you afterwards. I _wanted_ to stay, to make sure you were okay. And I'll be okay, too." He suddenly grinned, wide, his eyes alight. "Derek will make sure of that."

Blaine didn't really want to think about Finn and Derek that way, so he just nodded and ushered Finn to the door. "Take the back staircase. It'll let you out in the lobby, same as the other, but you shouldn't run into anyone that way."

"Thanks," Finn said. "Call me tonight, please, to let me know how things went today."

"I will," Blaine replied, standing in his open door and watching Finn's figure disappear up the hall.

"Oooh," Trey's soft voice drifted from somewhere left of him. "Who's the hottie?"

Blaine turned to glare at Trey. "Just a friend."

"Sure," Trey teased, shifting his shower caddy to his other hand and scuffing down the hall to the bathroom. "That's what they all say."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 -** following episode 1.17 Bad Reputation

The weather had turned windy and cold in the hours since Blaine had driven out from school, and he barely managed to swing his guitar case into the warm interior of the coffee shop before the wind sent the door slamming into his back. He scooted the rest of the way inside, and let his gaze drift over the noticeably smaller crowd that had assembled that night.

"Weather's keeping 'em away tonight," Irene nodded at him from the counter as she grabbed an extra-large cup and set to work on his mocha. Blaine stood back from the counter a ways and let his jacket drip onto the floor, still seeking out Finn's lanky form. But he was nowhere to be seen.

"He ain't here," Irene said, drizzling chocolate over the mound of whipped cream in his cup. "His friend is, though."

Blaine turned and found Derek a small corner table, partially in the shadows. His guitar case sat by his feet, but he was looking at a magazine and it didn't look like he was planning to even watch the open mic.

"Here," Irene said, sliding another cup across the counter. "He'll add the cream himself."

"Thanks," Blaine smiled at her, tucking his usual five dollars into the tip jar.

"On the house, Patrick," she scolded him lightly, the same way she did every week, and Blaine waved her off the same way he did every week. He liked the routine of it, and something in the fondness in Irene's voice told him that she did, too.

Blaine juggled his guitar and the two scalding hot drinks, picking his way carefully through the room to where Derek was sitting. "Is this seat taken?" he asked softly, not quite wanting to intrude on Derek's solitude but also not wanting to sit alone.

He glanced up over his magazine, nodding, but still reading, his glasses down on his nose. "Help yourself."

"Irene sent this over for you, said you'd add the cream yourself." He set the coffee down in front of Derek. "If you'll tell me how much you like, though, I'd be happy to do it."

Derek raised one eyebrow, then the other, and set his magazine down. It looked like a dense medical journal. "That's... thoughtful of you, Patrick," he said. "Two creams, then."

Blaine walked over and grabbed two creams from the condiment bar, plus a wooden stirrer and a handful of napkins. He added the cream slowly, careful not to splash it, stirred the coffee, and put the lid back on before carrying it back to the table. "Here you go," he said, placing the cup in front of Derek and settling into the chair across from him.

Derek nodded solemnly, holding his gaze for a moment. "Thank you," he said, and took a sip.

"Christopher couldn't make it tonight?" he asked carefully. Finn hadn't said anything to him, so he'd assumed he'd be seeing the boy tonight.

"He had... some trouble at home." Derek regarded him over the lid of his coffee. "You might be aware that he skipped some school on Friday."

"That was my fault," Blaine started.

"No," Derek cut him off. "It was Christopher's decision. I know how things are between the two of you. You can't make him do anything he doesn't want to do."

"He made sure I was ready to go to class. I should have done the same for him. School's important," Blaine said. "I shouldn't have let him be late on my account."

"Patrick." Derek's tone froze him where he sat, and he flinched a little, wondering what he'd done wrong. He glanced up to see Derek watching him with a patient expression. "Who's in charge, here? Between you and Christopher?"

"He is," Blaine said, swallowing, and adding a whispered _sir_ at the last minute. Derek made a small satisfied noise, and sat back in his chair with a smile.

"Yes. So don't start blaming yourself for things he chooses to do. Just let him take care of it."

"I'm working on that," Blaine admitted, feeling a sheepish smile cross his face. "I'm not very good at it, yet. But he's helping me."

"I know how hard it can be." Derek leaned forward and touched Blaine's hand, once. "You're doing very well. Christopher's proud of you."

Blaine felt a tiny ball of satisfaction settle in his chest. Finn had never said as much to him, but knowing that he'd shared his feelings with Derek seemed important. Real. "I didn't know," he said, sliding his eyes down to the tabletop. "Thank you for telling me that."

Derek nodded. "And you're getting what you need?"

"I- I think so, yes." Blaine ran a hand through his hair, and felt water scatter through his fingers. "I mean, this is all really new. I think I don't know, really, everything that I need." He wiped his damp palm on the knee of his jeans. "Or everything I might want," he added as an afterthought, voice low.

He nodded again, more slowly this time. "That'll take time, too. You have plenty of time to figure it out. I..." Derek's own smile was softer, more genuine, and it made Blaine relax a little more. "I was in my late twenties and had joined the military before I realized what I needed."

Blaine wondered what that must have felt like. He didn't think he'd have been able to stand the gnawing confusion and guilt he'd been trying to sort out these past months for all that time. "Do you think it's good, then, that I'm trying to figure it out now?"

"Certainly." Derek made a dismissive gesture. "But if you're confused, or uncertain, I'm trying to say - that's just going to happen, at the beginning. You don't have to expect yourself to understand or even really know what you're doing. You're paying attention, though - that's more than most people do."

"Sometimes I don't know what to pay attention _to_," he admitted. He was surprised that he was finding it so easy to talk with Derek. He barely knew the man at all, and he didn't usually open up to people that way. _Well_, he thought, _except for Finn_.

Derek cleared his throat. "Christopher... Finn." Blaine felt a shock at the sound of his name. "He was pretty upset he couldn't be here tonight."

"He told you," Blaine sighed, his voice low. "That I know his real name?"

"Of course. He tells me everything." Derek looked amused. "Just like you tell him everything."

Blaine shook his head. "I don't tell him everything," he said, swallowing hard and thinking about his dream from the other night, the one he hadn't been able to talk about beyond the vagueness of it being a sex dream.

He chuckled a little. "The fact that you're telling me _that _means you're coming pretty close."

"I couldn't- um." Blaine felt his cheeks flush. "I was too embarrassed. I couldn't tell him. He asked if I wanted to talk about it, and I told him no."

"That's okay. You don't have to." Derek took another sip of coffee. "I think you might want to, though. Even though you're scared?"

"Yes," Blaine let out in a rush before he could stop himself. "Yes, please, I _do_ want to."

"Okay," Derek said, leaning on the table and angling himself closer to Blaine. "What's going on?"

"Dreams," Blaine began, and couldn't help smiling a little at Derek's grin.

"You're sixteen. I can imagine." Derek's voice was kind, teasing.

Blaine shook his head. "Not those kinds of dreams. I mean, yeah, they _are_, but there's more. The one the other night, it wasn't just me and the boy I usually dream about. There was someone else there. And . . ." he let his voice slip back to a whisper, "they were, um. _Holding me down_."

Derek nodded as though Blaine had just told him about the next song he was going to sing. "And how was that?"

"I, um... liked it. A lot." His cheeks felt flaming, and he couldn't meet Derek's eyes, but he also couldn't make himself stop talking. "It was really hot, but it didn't make a lot of sense. Because I don't - I mean, Finn told me about you, and about his boyfriends, but I don't think I want more than one person_._ It was just, the other stuff? That's what was hot."

"I take it this was a surprise for you." Derek's eyes were warm and kind.

"Kind of. I met a boy, back in the fall, and he was... a little rough with me. I liked that, and when Finn started spanking me I realized I liked that, too. I thought all I needed was Finn, taking care of me like that, but... is it... can you..." he let out a frustrated sigh and tried to get his thoughts back in order. "It's not sexual, with Finn. But _can it be_? I mean, _could_ I have it that way? With someone?"

Derek's smile spread. It put Blaine in mind of a lazy lion, lounging in the sun. "Oh, yes," he said. "Absolutely."

Blaine let that knowledge settle over him like a blanket, warm and comforting. "I'm not- there's nothing _wrong_ with me for wanting that?"

"No. There's nothing wrong with wanting that." Derek said it so easily, like it should be something Blaine could assume. Like of _course_ it was fine.

"You make it sound so _simple_," Blaine exclaimed, a faint hint of frustration creeping into his voice, "like _everyone_ should want it. Like it's _normal_."

"Patrick... I've been around for a long time, right? One of the advantages of being a... gentleman of some years..." He smiled, waiting for Patrick to smile too, before going on. "... is that I have met a lot of people. People who want the same things that you're telling me about, right now. And I'm trying to let you know... it's _normal._ You're not the only one, by a long, long shot."

Derek's whole manner was soothing, and Blaine felt himself settling down under the man's gaze. Trusting him. "Blaine," he said, softly. "My real name is Blaine. Anderson."

Derek blinked once, twice. He sat forward, peering intently at Blaine. Then he held out his hand across the table. "Carl Howell," he said. "Nice to meet you."

Blaine slid his hand into Carl's, taking it tightly the way his father had taught him when he was a little boy. _Always shake firmly, and look the other person in the eye_, his father's voice echoed in his head. "Nice to meet you, Carl," he said - but somehow he couldn't make himself look Carl in the eye. It just didn't feel right.

"Good boy," Carl murmured, sliding a small card across the table. "I'll have to talk with Finn about it, but let me invite you to come by my office. You might find it . . . enlightening."

Blaine shivered, and took the card without looking at it before tucking it into his pocket. "Thank you, sir," he said, because the honorific had seemed to please Carl earlier. "Will you be singing tonight?"

Carl smiled at him again, but shook his head. "I don't think so. But you should. I would love to hear you sing."

Blaine sipped at the last of his mocha and set to work opening his guitar case. "Is there anything you'd like to hear?"

"How's your repertoire of Billy Joel?" Carl peered at him kind of sideways as he tuned up, and Blaine ran through the handful of Billy Joel he knew.

"I have the perfect one," he said with a maybe-too-cocky grin before turning and striding up to the stage.

"This is for a friend," Blaine said, settling in behind the microphone and plucking out the slow melody.

_In every heart, there is a room  
__A sanctuary safe and strong  
__To heal the wounds of lovers past  
__Until a new one comes along_

He didn't miss Carl's approving nod from the corner, and he couldn't help but smile. He liked the way it felt, being able to make someone else happy that way.

It made him happy, too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six - **following episode 1.19 Laryngitis

Carl was a surprisingly good drummer. Finn had only had two years of lessons, in that brief time when his mother was making more money as an upper level administrator before she decided it was too stressful. After that, he'd had the kit, and he played most days after school when he was at his house instead of Puck's. He wasn't bad; he could keep a beat, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve, but Carl was _really_ good.

"You toured with _who,_ again?" Finn asked, and Carl clearly thought this was hilarious, because his frown intensified and he cleared his throat a lot.

"You wouldn't have heard of them," he said, twirling one stick. It was one of those moves that every drummer seemed to have, but somehow when Carl did it, it took on a whole new meaning. Finn had to look away, blushing.

"I always thought I would like to be in a, you know. A band." Finn kept his eyes averted long enough for him to start wondering if Carl thought this was amusing or not, so eventually he looked back. Carl was just sitting there, gazing at him, and he found himself blushing all over again. _Jesus._

"But you're not in one?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Even JV Football took up a lot of time, and now I'm in varsity, and basketball... I pretty much had to drop all my other extracurr- extrac- other stuff when I joined Glee. I don't think I have time for one more thing."

"Mmmm." Something in Carl's voice made him look up. "One more thing. Like this, with... Blaine?"

Finn felt the blood actually leave his face, and he shivered at the absence of circulation. "Uh."

"Relax, my boy. He told me his name himself." Carl set down his drumsticks. "And I told him my name as well, so you don't have to hide that anymore. I know it's... stressful for you, hiding."

Finn nodded uncomfortably. "I... he does kind of take up a lot of time."

Carl stood, and strode over to him, putting both hands on his shoulders. Sitting down like this, looking up at Carl, should have made him even more imposing, but Finn didn't even notice.

"You don't need to worry about that," he said in a gentle voice. "He needs you, and you... well. It's mutual, I suspect."

He nodded again, watching Carl's face carefully, but there was no reaction. "You weren't so crazy about that idea, when we started."

Carl touched his cheek with one hand. "I wasn't crazy about the idea of you taking on one more thing, it's true. But it's too late to worry about that now. He's part of this. Part of you. Isn't he?"

Finn just sat there, caught by the touch of his hand. Eventually Carl smiled, and Finn felt his insides turn to rubber.

"I asked you a question," he murmured.

"Yes sir," Finn replied immediately.

Carl nodded thoughtfully. "Well... I want you to do something, then."

Before Finn could ask him what it was, Carl kissed him hard, knocking him back against the wall. Finn made an entirely embarrassing squeaking noise, but it didn't deter Carl in the slightest.

"Our Wednesday nights," he said into Finn's mouth. Finn barely understood what he'd said, and he had to ask him to repeat it, but by then Carl's mouth was on his neck, and he was tipped back in his chair, sprawled backwards, and _oh god_ he was kneeling on Finn's lap, and Finn could _feel_ him -

"I want you to spend Wednesday nights with Blaine," Carl said.

Finn said _yes, sir,_ before he really thought about what he was agreeing to. Eventually he put one hand on Carl's chest and applied some pressure, attempting to regain his rational brain. "What?"

"You need more time with him," he insisted, beginning on Finn's buttons. "He needs it, too. Wednesdays, you drive to... where was that? Columbus?"

"W-Westerville?" There was that squeak again. He was going to have to do something about that, but honestly, he could barely function with Carl's hand inside his shirt like that.

"Right. Yes." Carl's mouth returned to his cheek, and worked its way over to his ear. "You leave basketball practice and go right there. Then, you come home. To me."

"Yes sir," Finn managed to get out. "Yes... _god _- yes."

That was pretty much the end of the talking for a while.

* * *

"I didn't interrupt your dinner, did I?" Finn asked carefully, trailing up the stairs behind Blaine.

"No," Blaine laughed. "The dining hall opens at 5:30, so most of us eat early. I've been doing homework." He waited at the top of the stairs and held the door for Finn, gesturing ahead of him. "You remember the way?"

Finn nodded, and Blaine watched him walk up the hall. Blaine had left his door open, his music on, and his homework was kind of all over the place.

"Sorry," he said, scrambling to pick up his math problem set and the translations for his Italian class. "I kind of lost track of time."

"It's fine," Finn said, closing the door behind them. He shed his jacket, hanging it over the back of Blaine's desk chair. "But you'll have to start paying more attention on Wednesdays."

Blaine wasn't sure he understood. "What?"

"I'll be coming out here every Wednesdays, after practice. I won't be able to stay the night like I did last week, because I, um, well... I just can't stay the night. But D- uh, _Carl_, we thinks it's important that we spend more time together."

"Why Wednesdays?" They were just another day, as far as Blaine was concerned. His favorite, maybe, because school let out at noon, and the Warblers had an extended practice before afternoon sports, and Blaine still had boxing until after Spring Break. Boxing was _so much better_ than soccer or lacrosse, mostly because he got to just work out as hard as he wanted, until the only thing in his head was his blood pounding in his ears.

"I think because Wednesday was one of our days, me and Carl," Finn said. He sat on the edge of Blaine's bed, watching him carefully. "I don't think he could take time away from - from anyone else, so... he said Wednesdays."

Blaine thought about that. "You mean, he's taking time away from you two, to give to... me? That's really generous of him." Blaine thought about how busy he was, himself, with _no_ boyfriend. He couldn't imagine having three. And a _girlfriend._

"He knows how important it is for you and me to have time together," Finn said. "He knows we both need this."

Blaine put his papers on his desk and moved to sit carefully next to Finn on his bed. "When he and I talked, on Saturday, he said, um." Blaine licked at his lips, and reached into his pocket for the card Carl had given him, that he'd been carrying around with him since the weekend. "He gave me this." Blaine handed the card to Finn. "He said you and I should talk, but that I might find it, um, _enlightening_... to visit his office."

"He... oh." Finn looked positively stricken, and Blaine wondered what he'd said. He almost apologized. Finn stood up and walked across the room to the window, and paused there a long moment. "He told you what his office is like? What he... does?"

"No." Blaine shook his head. "But I suspect it's probably a lot like what _we_ do?"

"Y-es," Finn said, not turning around. "Sort of. He didn't tell you anything?"

"No," Blaine said again. "I told him about my dream, the one I had last week. I was embarrassed, to tell you, but it was so easy to talk to him. And that was when he asked me."

Finn was quiet. "Okay," he said at last. "I... all right. I just..." He hesitated, then all in a rush, he said, "I don't know if you're ready for that."

Blaine stretched out on his bed, curled on his side with his back to the wall. He patted the empty space in front of him. "Why don't you come here, and tell me what I'm not understanding."

Finn took one look at Blaine and seemed to blanch, but then he sighed and walked over to the bed. He sat in the space next to Blaine, putting a good foot of space between them.

"Did I do something wrong?" Blaine felt confused, because he didn't know why Finn was suddenly reluctant to be close to him.

"No - no." Finn put out a hand and touched his. He looked conflicted, but he said, "You didn't do anything wrong at all. It's just that Carl... he's a professional. I mean, he does this, professionally."

"Spanks people?" Blaine knew he was simplifying things, but he didn't have the language to say anything else. Finn laughed, and seemed to relax a little.

"Yeah, kind of. That's part of it, anyway. Discipline, he says. I guess... people need that, right? Like you do. And me... and he, just, he provides that to people." Finn settled back against the wall next to Blaine. "Before we started... seeing each other, he was kind of teaching me to do what he does. To take care of... my boyfriends? Helping me figure things out." His face grew darker. "But what he does... it's different from what we do. I mean, it's partly that, but..." He sighed. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"He does more than what you and I do, is what you're trying to say," Blaine said.

Finn bit his lip. "More, and... different. He... has rules. And you have to follow them. He's very... specific. Strict." He closed his eyes. "You don't get to... keep who you are, when you're there. You take it off, like your clothes. You're just... empty. You become whatever he tells you you are."

"But if you follow the rules? If he . . . um. Approves of how you are, when you're there? Does it- does it feel _good_, after?" Blaine tried not to sound _too_ interested, but suddenly he felt driven, like he _needed_ to know these things like he needed air. Like they might hold the key to _everything_.

Finn opened his eyes and looked at Blaine, and his breath hitched a little. "I - I don't even know. I mean, I've never done that. I'm his boy, like... like you're mine." He put his hand on Blaine's arm. "What he gives his regular clients, that's different. He might be able to give you something different. Something I… don't know how to give you."

Blaine leaned his shoulder against Finn's. "If- if I wanted to try that? Would you be okay with that? It wouldn't- I don't want-" he sighed, and tried again. "I don't want it to change this, with you. I just... I need to _know_."

"Blaine..." Finn shook his head, his face shuttered. "You don't have to worry about that. Of course you can do that with him. You can do whatever you want. We're not... I mean, I'm not going to tell you what you can, or... can't do." A wave of something passed over Finn, almost like pain, but it was gone before Blaine could identify it. "Carl is... very knowledgeable. He can help you, I'm sure." He looked at the floor. "He helped me."

Something in Finn's voice struck Blaine, and he shifted so that he could slide a hand over Finn's back. "Finn, I don't want what _you_ have with him. I'm not going to take his time and attention from you."

Finn gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. I didn't want what I have with him, either - I mean, I didn't think I did. It wasn't something we planned." His own arm went around Blaine, and suddenly he was holding him tight, tighter, until Blaine's ribs creaked and he was breathless. "It's fine. Really. Anything you want is - it's fine."

"I need this, with you. I'm not- um. I'm not going to leave you." It felt to Blaine like a conversation boyfriends would have, even though he and Finn weren't boyfriends. "I mean, I don't want _this_ part of things with anyone but you."

Finn's fierce hug abated somewhat, and Blaine had air in his lungs again, but it was stilled as Finn took his chin in one hand and tipped it up to his with a sudden jerk.

"I don't want you to have this with anyone else," he growled. "You're mine."

Blaine shivered, and stared into Finn's eyes. "Yes," he said, before he even really thought about it. "Yours."

Finn's breathing was rough and shallow. "Anything you want to do in Carl's office," he said hoarsely, "you're going to do with _me_, right there_._ Only with me. You got that?"

Blaine felt the connection between them surge up, stronger than before. "Yes. Only you." He nodded into the gentle pressure of Finn's fingertips on his chin, and wasn't sure, but he thought maybe he saw tears welling in the corners of Finn's eyes. But when Finn blinked, the moisture was gone, so he must have been mistaken.

"Okay. That's good." Finn tucked him into his arms, holding him tight just for one moment before letting him go at the sound of a knock on the door.

"Anderson?" David's voice was lost in the sudden thumpa-thumpa of music from up the hall. "Wes' mom sent him a care package, and you _need_ to get out here _right fucking now_ because I have rum, and Jeff got a new supply over the weekend, and there are cookies, so we are going to have a party."

Blaine shook his head silently. "Jeff was the one who got me the coke," he said in a whisper.

Finn was on his feet in an instant. "You can't... if that's going to be a part of partying here, you _can't_ do that."

"Just - hold on," he said, brushing his hand against Finn's arm on his way to the door. He opened it, and David took two steps inside.

"David," he said, gesturing to Finn, "this is my friend Finn, from home." Okay, so that was stretching the truth to almost brittle thinness, but David didn't know that. Finn regarded David with thinly veiled hostility, but luckily David didn't seem to pick up on it, or possibly he just didn't care. "Would he be welcome to join us?"

"The more the merrier, man," David smiled.

"Okay," Blaine sighed. "But he has to drive home still, so no drinks for us. And my dad's cut back on my allowance, so I gotta quit the coke." Another lie, but something that all the guys would understand.

"Don't you have school in the morning?" Finn murmured. "You can't be out partying on a school night."

David smirked at Finn, and clapped Blaine on the back. "You clearly haven't been to Dalton before. Blaine's a party _animal."_

"Heh." Blaine grinned weakly up at Finn, raising one eyebrow. "This isn't public school, Finn. You ready for this?"

Finn blinked, then his lips curved in a grim smile. "I can handle whatever you can. Come on."

The hall was already chaos, doors flung open and music blasting. Wes was sitting in the middle of the floor, opening bags of homemade cookies. "Wes' mom makes the _best_ oatmeal chocolate chip cookies," Blaine said, escorting Blaine through the fray. "Even if we don't do anything else, we _have_ to have some cookies."

"Oh, trust me, I can eat cookies," Finn said, relaxing a little, and helped himself to two. "My best friend's sister makes great chocolate chip ones. I think I ate two dozen while we were watching the American Music Awards."

"I missed the AMA's this year," Blaine said. grinning. "But the cookies sound fun. I have a crazy sweet tooth." He sidled up to Wes and snagged two out of the open bag. "Here." He handed one to Finn, his mouth already full of crumbs.

"Dude," Finn rolled his eyes. "You might be worse than me."

"Hey, I'm sixteen," Blaine laughed. "Marisol says boys our age are _always_ hungry."

* * *

Finn watched him closely as Blaine interacted with everyone in the room with apparent ease and confidence. It was almost as though he were a different person - except Finn could still see, underneath, tiny hints of _Patrick_ coming through, in the way he reacted when people said certain things, the intensity of his gaze, the hesitation before he laughed. Finn leaned against the wall and ate cookies and tried to stay out of his way.

"Well," a voice said from next to him, and Finn had to look down to meet the eyes of a slightly chubby, round-faced boy with eyes as blue as Kurt's. "If it isn't Mr. Hottie. What _is_ your name?"

The boy was slurring his words a little, and Finn pushed off from the wall, backed a step away. "I'm Finn. I'm Blaine's friend."

"Riiiiiight," the boy drew the word out. "Friend. Sure. Slinking out of his room at 6 am. You must be a pretty special friend."

Finn swallowed hard, but he didn't think the boy would notice. "Just friends. From home," he added for good measure, even though that wasn't even close to the truth. "Who are you?" He narrowed his eyes and used the best Voice he could muster - and he almost fell over when it _worked_. The boy stiffened, and stuck out the hand that wasn't holding a sweating red plastic cup.

"Trey. I'm in the Warblers with Blaine. We're also neighbors."

Finn nodded. "Nice to meet you, Trey." He glanced around the room. "Can you tell me, which one is... Jeff?"

Trey pointed to a slim boy with white-blond hair, wearing jeans with tears at both knees and a baggy black shirt. "That's him. Warbler council, lacrosse captain, and master at procuring both the hottest Crawford Country Day girls and the best drugs." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "But you didn't hear that from me."

"Not _just_ you." Finn tried not to glare at Jeff right off the bat. _Blaine's doing all right. I don't need to be so fucking protective of him. Even if he needs it. _He sighed. "Thanks. I won't say anything."

He decided to just let things be, for now. At least knowing _who_ Jeff was, if he needed to intervene on Blaine's behalf later, he could. He just stood there, bemused, watching Blaine flitting around from group to group, talking and laughing and being so different from the way he was as Patrick. Or from the way they were, together. The Blaine he was seeing here was almost artificially outgoing, like he was trying to be someone he _thought_ the others would like, instead of being himself. But there was still something kind of genuine underneath, like part of Blaine really _was_ that guy.

_Or_, Finn thought, suddenly sad_, like Blaine's been playing at this so long that even __**he**__ thinks it's real_.

"We should sing," Blaine was saying, snapping Finn out of his daze.

"Uh... okay?" Finn glanced around at the rest of the boys, who were smiling at Blaine. _Following his lead,_ he realized with a start. _Man. That's weird._

But it did seem to be the way it was: Blaine was clearly the leader, and the others shouted out a few song titles, but when Blaine shook his head and said, "I know what," they just fell into formation, like they'd practiced a thousand times. It made Finn smile to see him fronting a group of humming backup singers like that.

But then Blaine started singing, and Finn's smile fell away. He just stood there and stared at him. This wasn't Patrick. This was... well, Finn didn't even know _who_ this was - but he was _damn_ good.

_Standing cold and scared on top of blue hill,  
__There came one moment when I lost my will.  
__I prayed for mercy, please, Lord, take me away.  
__Give me sunshine where I only see grey.  
__My past had a hold on me, it can't be denied,  
__And the changes didn't come easily._

Suddenly Finn had a memory: standing in Brad's living room, during caroling, and hearing a magical acapella sound drifting out of Santana's phone, led by a strong tenor. Finn hadn't known who it was, then, but he knew him well now. _Blaine. Santana's mysterious friend - the one she'd grown up with._ He had to shake his head, the juxtaposition of his two worlds making him dizzy. But Blaine was still singing - and now he was directing the words right at Finn, his eyes intense and playful.

_I've been lonely, I've been cheated,  
__I've been misunderstood  
__I've been washed up, I've been put down,  
__And told I'm no good  
__But with you I belong,  
__Cause you help me be strong,  
__There's a change in my life,  
__Since you came along._

Finn swallowed, hard, and tried to keep himself from blushing. From showing _any_ kind of reaction. Because even though others probably saw Blaine's "show face" as a mask, Finn had the startling feeling that, in that moment, he was seeing Blaine at his _most_ genuine. Singing to him. _No_, he realized as Blaine moved into the next verse. _Singing __**for**__me_.

_Now I don't mind working so hard every day, no  
__And I don't pay no mind to what people say.  
__'Cause after all the pain I've been through  
__Lord knows I'd give up everything  
__Just to love only you_

Finn _had_ to look away_, _because every second that he stared into Blaine's eyes, so open and wanting, was one more second of cold, hard realization. _Shit. I'm in so much trouble here_. The lyrics were just lyrics, but the idea that maybe Blaine felt _something_ for him . . . he couldn't even really let his brain go there. Because this wasn't supposed to be like that. This was supposed to be him and Blaine, discipline and friendship. _Nothing else_.

Finn could almost hear Burt chuckling, looking at him in that way he had, saying: _not __**another**__ boy._

No. _Not_ another boy. It was Finn's job to keep things strictly to their arrangement. _No feelings_.

_All my life I'd held my head bent in shame,  
__But now I've found you  
__and with you I'll remain_

But there _were _feelings. The zing Finn had felt, when Blaine had promised to be _his_. The slow burn he was feeling now, watching Blaine.

_A man gets crazy when his life is all wrong,  
__And a heart gets weary when it doesn't belong.  
__When the road gets rocky,  
__You've got to keep on.  
__Let the new light come shining on through._

New light. Finn turned the idea over. He'd been more confident, more... _himself, _since he'd started things with Blaine. He wasn't so scared, anymore. Maybe Blaine was just as good for him as he was for Blaine.

But being good still didn't mean that there needed to be _feelings._

When the song was over, Blaine twirled around on both feet and tucked himself close to Finn, smiling wickedly with sparkling eyes. Finn felt warmth spreading through him everywhere Blaine was touching him, and he had to fight against the sudden urge to _touchtastefeel_ because Blaine was _right there_. And they were in public, and dammit, things weren't _like that _between them.

He kept breathing, waited until the rest of the Warblers had gone back to the party before pushing himself off the wall. "I- um... wow... you guys are really good," he let out in a rush, "but I need to get going so I don't - don't get in trouble again."

He hurried into Blaine's room for his jacket and keys, and Blaine followed him, closing the door with a gentle click.

"Everything okay?" he asked, softly.

"Yeah," Finn sighed. "I just got... lost... in my thoughts, while you were singing." He shrugged into his jacket, and tried to cross to the door, but Blaine was there, his hands on Finn's shoulders, and Finn couldn't move. He _needed_ to get out of there before he did something stupid. Before he let _Blaine_ do something stupid.

He wrapped his hands around Blaine's wrists, harder than he normally would have, but he was starting to feel frantic. So he took them and twisted them behind his back - and Blaine just gave way. He gasped as Finn trapped his arms, and Finn had to wrench his head away in desperation, because Blaine's head had tipped back just a little, and his exposed neck was _right fucking there_...

Finn let go of Blaine like he'd been burned, mumbling, "I gotta - _really,_ I gotta go," and he had to fight not to look back as he fumbled with the doorknob and darted out into the hallway without saying goodbye.

When he got to the car, he opened his phone with trembling hands and texted Blaine _I'm sorry, there's nothing wrong. I just really have to get home. Talk 2morrow?_

He didn't get an answer until he was pulled up in front of Carl's house. _I'm sorry, too_, it said. _Talk 2morrow. We're okay, though, right?_

_Yes_, he sent, and stepped out of the car.

* * *

Carl answered the front door himself, glancing around before stepping out to take Finn's hand and pull him inside.

"Angela went home early," he said, but those were all the words he got out before Finn's mouth was on his, hot and insistent. He was so surprised he didn't do anything but react for a few moments. Finn wasn't small, and he could be a little overwhelming when he got like this. It wasn't exactly what Carl was used to, but he wasn't precisely complaining.

Finally, though, he put a firm hand on Finn's chest and pushed. "You're out of control," he said.

"God," Finn moaned, reaching for Carl again, but Carl stepped back, shaking his head.

"You can tell me all about it," he said, "but we're not going to act out your desires for somebody else without being _very clear_ about where it's all coming from. Now are you going to get control of yourself, or do I need to get the cuffs?"

Finn blanched a little, but he was already flushed and breathless enough that this had almost no effect. "I - okay." He closed his eyes and let Carl's solid presence calm him down, his shoulders relaxing and some of the wild desire leaving his eyes.

"Your boy," Carl murmured, stroking his chest.

Finn nodded, and shuddered.

"What happened?"

Finn told him the whole story in fits and starts, and between kisses and caresses. "He wanted to come see you," Finn said, letting Carl unbutton his shirt. "To your office. And I - I panicked. I didn't want him to see you. I didn't want him to do that with _anybody else._"

Carl raised a dangerous eyebrow. "Not even me?" The implication was clear. _You're mine, and therefore anything belonging to you is also mine._

"No - sir," Finn said belatedly. "Not even you." He didn't look ashamed. Rather, he looked like he might be planning to stand there and fight Carl to the death for this one. It would have been more intimidating had he not been in his boxers and one sock.

Carl nodded and laid a pacifying hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Finn. Nobody's going to make your boy do anything he doesn't want to do."

Finn let out a ragged chuckle and sank onto the couch. "No, I don't think that's the problem. It's whether or not _I_ end up doing things he doesn't want me to do."

"You seemed pretty clear there wasn't anything sexual between the two of you," he said smoothly, and Finn heaved a frustrated sigh. "I take it that's... changed?"

"Changed... yeah. Changed for me, anyway." He gritted his teeth. "But he doesn't need that from me. Doesn't need the complicated."

Carl stood beside him, a hand on the back of his head, and pulled Finn forward to rest his cheek on his stomach. He felt the tension thrumming in Finn's posture, the way he clutched at him. "He needs you to be very clear and very comfortable with the way things are," Carl said. "If you can't be, he's not going to get very far in this relationship. He's just going to be anxious, if you're not satisfied."

"But what does that mean for us?" Finn whispered, rolling his head back and forth. "I can't _not_ see him. I need this too much."

Carl felt a flush of pride, hearing Finn admit that so easily. _You've come a long way, yourself, my boy._ "I think it just means you need to be honest with him, and set some limits. Be strict with yourself, and with him, and if he tries to push it with you, let him know that's not acceptable."

Finn nodded. "I can do that." He turned his head up to meet Carl's eyes. "I don't think I can stop wanting him, though."

"No," Carl said, tenderly carding through Finn's hair with his fingers - then taking two big handfuls of it, and yanking Finn's head exactly where it needed to go. "But at least I can take care of _that_ part each week when you come home to me."

* * *

Blaine felt anxious all over again, not sure where things had gone so drastically wrong. He kept turning his phone over and over in his hands, thinking about the _yes_ Finn had sent in response to his asking if they were okay. Because, even with that affirmation in his message box, things didn't _feel_ okay.

If he were being honest, he'd felt like things were on the edge of out of control between him and Finn all night long. And when Finn had taken his wrists like that, held him nearly immobile, Blaine had kind of hoped that maybe Finn was going to kiss him.

He didn't want to think about whether he'd wanted that or not.

He stuck his phone into his pocket and slipped into the hall. It was quiet now, the party dispersed and everyone but him a little tipsy and a little high and back in their rooms.

"You okay?" A voice from the dark corner of the common room, where there were two big armchairs and a small coffee table.

"Jeff?" Blaine squinted into the darkness, and caught the telltale glint of Jeff's hair in the light from the exit sign at the end of the hall.

"Yeah. Couldn't sleep. You?"

"Same," Blaine said, picking his way around empty plastic cups to the other chair.

"So, everything okay? Your friend seemed, um..." Jeff crossed his arms, leaned on the door frame and raised one blonde eyebrow. "He left in a hurry."

"He had to get home. It's a long drive, and he got in trouble the last time he was late."

"He kept staring at me. Kind of a death stare sort of thing."

Blaine tucked his legs under him and settled further into the soft confines of the chair. "He knows. What you got for me."

Jeff stared, then his eyes widened in wounded horror. "About the... _shit_, Blaine. You said you wouldn't tell anyone."

"It's not- it's not _like that_. He doesn't care about what you, or anyone else, does." He closed his eyes, warring with himself over how much to tell Jeff. "He just cares what _I_ do. He told me I can't use it. That's why I haven't asked you for any more."

Jeff nodded, like maybe he kind of understood. "But he's not your boyfriend?"

"No," Blaine shook his head. "Why?"

"Because he looked like he wanted to keep you close. Like, protect you, or something. Like you _belonged_ to him."

"I do," Blaine blurted before he realized it, and he felt his face go hot and he _needed _to explain, because he didn't want Jeff to get the wrong idea.

Jeff just looked at him, gaze steady. "You've been better, lately. More focused. Happier."

"Yeah."

"Because of him?"

"Yeah."

Jeff shifted in his chair, turning closer into Blaine's space. "Good. You deserve all of that. It's okay, to need that from him."

Blaine shook his head. "Wait. Do you - are you...? I think I'm missing something."

"It's okay," Jeff laughed gently, a hand on Blaine's arm, and dropped his voice lower. "You're not the only one who likes a little kink."

"Kink," Blaine echoed, rolling the word over on his tongue, in his head. "I never- we never talked about it like that."

"It's hard, though, isn't it? Hiding it from people?" Jeff almost seemed _relieved_ to have someone to talk about it with.

"Yeah," Blaine admitted. "I'll keep your secret."

"I never doubted you would," Jeff replied. "Now... I'll bet I can guess what he'd do if he knew you were out of bed so late."

Blaine's face went blazing hot as he thought about the feel of Finn's hand on his bare ass. He shivered, and nodded at Jeff. "Yeah. I'm going." He pushed himself out of his chair, and fixed Jeff with an awkward grin. "Thanks."

"No problem. You can always talk to me. And - hey, you read, don't you? I'll bring you some books, the next time I go home. About the kink."

"I'd like that," Blaine said, crossing the common room. "'Night, Jeff."

"Goodnight, Blaine."

He didn't feel quite so anxious when he slid under his covers. Talking with Jeff hadn't been the same as settling things with Finn, but it had calmed him just the same.

But for the first time in months, when he woke from a dream in the middle of the night, hard and aching and wanting to cry out, it wasn't the boy from the club with his hands and mouth and body over Blaine. This time it was Finn.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 -** following episode 1.21 Funk, which falls before 1.20 Theatricality

Blaine was bundled, snug and warm, under his pile of blankets. He hadn't moved from the spot where he'd fallen asleep, where Finn had left him, when he'd had to leave to head back to Lima and Carl. It hadn't been a hard spanking. Blaine had had a pretty good week, hadn't needed a lot of discipline. But he liked the way all of it - their Wednesdays together, and the unlikely intimacy of the discipline - let him feel closer to Finn.

And, as always, he slept really hard afterwards, which was why it took him a minute to come out of his sleep-haze to reach for his phone where it was dancing across the top of his bookcase.

"'lo?"

"Blaine? It's Francie. I'm... I'm sorry to bother you so late. I just... I didn't know who else to call." She sounded on the edge of panic.

Blaine sat up, let his warm cocoon of blankets fall away. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"No. I'm not okay. I'm freaking out, Blaine." He heard her sniff. "It's my mother. She found out about the camp I wanted to do this summer, and she's not going to _let _me do it... and I need to get out of here, Blaine. I'm dying in this stupid little town."

"What camp did you pick this year?" Frances had been going to Girl Scout camp for years, almost as long as Blaine had known her. She seemed to enjoy it, but Blaine didn't really understand what would make it worthy of an all-out war.

"Adventure camp. It's awesome - climbing, and orienteering, and _everything. _But she said that camp isn't _appropriate_ for a girl like me." Her voice was far more bitter than Blaine had ever heard from her before when she talked about her mother. "What a joke. I think she wants a Barbie doll, not a real actual daughter. Someone to play _dress-up_ with... who'll do her hair and wear the right dresses and talk about _boys._"

"Ah." That answered a lot of questions. "What do boys have to do with anything?"

He could almost hear Francie shrug. "Nothing, really. Except . . ."

"What?"

"I mean, some of the other girls are starting to want to go out on dates and stuff, and I just. I don't _want_ that." There was confusion and angst in her voice, and Blaine wished he were there with her, so they could build a blanket fort and have hot chocolate and he could tell her that she was just fine as she was.

"That's okay, Francie. There's no timeline for things like that. And I think your camp sounds amazing. Can your mom keep you from going?"

"No. I have so much money in my cookie account, I could go to _two_ camps." She sounded proud, and Blaine smiled.

"You're a shrewd saleswoman, I'll give you that. It's a good thing I have lacrosse every day, or I'd be a giant Samoa and you'd have to roll me out of my room for class." That made Francie giggle, and Blaine breathed a silent sigh of relief that he'd been able to redirect her from her crisis.

Only when she spoke again, her voice was trembling. "Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"What if- what if I don't?"

"What if you don't _what_?" He was confused.

"What if I don't like boys? I mean, _like that_. What if I like _girls_ instead?" She sounded so scared and lost.

"Then you like girls. I mean, I know that's simplifying it a lot, but it's not wrong, and you can't change it. It's just- how you are. And I know it's scary sometimes, and believe me when I say that it's anything but easy. But you have me, okay? And I've been there, and I understand, and I love you just how you are." He could hear her sniffling. "How sure are you?" he asked after some silence, because he knew that sometimes he had to dig a little with Francie when something was really bothering her.

"Not very. I mean," she took a breath, "I kissed my best friend, and I _liked_ it, and thinking about _boys_ that way makes me a little queasy. But I'm not really sure."

"That's okay, too," he said, pulling his blankets back up under his chin. "You don't have to figure it all out right away. But you can _always_ call me, understand?"

"Yeah," she said, and Blaine could hear her yawning.

"It's late, Francie. You should get some sleep. But call me tomorrow, after dinner, and we can talk more about your camp and everything, okay?" He felt his eyes drifting closed, and if Francie didn't hurry he was going to fall asleep on her.

"Okay. Thanks, Blaine."

"'welcome," he muttered, and barely managed to end the call before he was floating back into dreams.

* * *

She called, as promised, the next evening when Blaine was half-heartedly poking at his lab report for chem. They talked about Frances' camp, and her mother (_she's making me crazy, Blaine), _and the perils of middle school (_I hate to tell you, Francie, it doesn't get better)_. But then she fell silent, and when he listened hard he thought he could hear her sniffling.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"I c-can't _do_ this, Blaine. Even if I'm not - _you know - _I'm never going to be the kind of daughter my mother wants." She huffed in frustration.

"You're twelve. How can you be sure?" Which was a stupid question because Blaine had known from the time he was in preschool that he was never going to be enough for his father.

He could almost hear Frances' eyeroll. "Please. You've met my mother. What do you think?"

Blaine laughed lightly. "Your mother is . . . _particular_. But don't worry about her right now. We need to get _you_ in a better head space." He thought about the one place he'd felt completely accepted as a child. "I'm coming home for the weekend. How about we hang out on Saturday? We can ride bikes and stuff."

"Bikes? Really? Can't you drive yet?" she teased him lightly.

"Soon. June. Until then, bikes or walking." He hoped his tires still had air; he hadn't ridden his bike since last summer, because it had been too snowy at Christmas and he'd had to rely on Santana to drive him places. "I'll come by your house around 10?"

"Sure," Frances said. "Do you want to tell me where we're going?"

"No," Blaine teased back. "I think you'll like it, though."

* * *

Frances was waiting on her porch, her bike leaning against the railing, when he coasted to a stop in front of her house just before 10 on Saturday morning. Mrs. Preston was sitting with her, tucked onto the swing with a cup of coffee in her hands.

"It's nice to see you again, Blaine," she said with a severe nod.

"You too, Mrs. Preston. It's been a while."

"Yes," she said, standing and settling a hand on Frances' shoulder. "School is going well?"

"Yes, ma'am," Blaine replied with his best show smile. "Thanks for letting me take Frances out today. We're going to ride our bikes over to the library, and have lunch downtown. I'll have her home by 3, if that's all right."

"That's fine. Thank you, Blaine," she said with a smile before turning a scowl on Frances. "I expect you to spend the evening on your homework, since you'll be out all day."

"Yes, Mother," Frances sighed, stalking down the steps and swinging into her bike seat.

"Thank you," she said as they pedalled to the corner and stopped to wait or the cars to pass so they could cross. "I'm sorry for crying on the phone. I just-"

Blaine rested his hand on her arm. "It's okay. I get it. No apologies, okay?"

"Okay. So what's at the library?" she asked, a quizzical look on her face.

"You'll see," Blaine replied with a smile.

They worked in silence to chain and lock their bikes to the empty rack in front of the library. Frannie was curious as they wandered up the walk. "I haven't been here since you used to bring me for storytime."

"Really?" Blaine was kind of surprised, but then again, Mrs. Preston never had seemed like a library kind of parent. "Well. You need to read more. And the best thing about the library, besides it being free, is that nobody can tell you what you should and shouldn't read."

"But- I don't have a card." It was a sad excuse for an excuse, and Blaine almost laughed at Frannie, but he restrained himself.

"Don't worry. We'll take care of that first thing. And then we're going to get you some books."

Frannie looked doubtful, but Blaine trusted himself. And he trusted Paula. Paula would help, Blaine had no doubt in that.

* * *

Frances followed Blaine through the heavy door at the front of the library and was instantly assaulted by air conditioning and the very distinct smell of books. She remembered how she'd liked coming in the summers for storytime, sitting on brightly colored squares of carpet with Blaine, when she and Sarah had been young, listening to stories and singing songs, and sometimes staying later and browsing through all kinds of books that they'd had to leave behind, because Frances' mother didn't want to be bothered with returning anything.

She'd kind of been sad when she'd been too old for that. She'd stopped reading outside of school not long after that, because her mother only bought her classics, and by the time she was ten Frances thought that she'd vomit if she had to read another book about a girl and a horse. It didn't matter how much she begged, her mother never got her anything like the cool-looking books Blaine always brought when he babysat nights. Those books had people with armor and things on the covers, and promised magic and battles and romance.

Those books were for adults, and Frances was so so tired of being treated like a little girl.

Blaine led Frances over to the desk where a very pregnant woman pushed herself out of a chair and made her way around to the front.

"Blaine!" She threw her arms around Blaine's neck. Blaine leaned awkwardly around her belly to hug her back.

"Paula." He pulled away and nodded at Frances. "This is my friend, Frances. Frannie, this is Paula. She's one of the librarians, and she always knows the best books."

"Hi," Frances said, trying not to stare at Paula. It looked like there was a lot of baby in there.

"What kinds of books do you like, Frances?" Paula smiled at her, and Frances couldn't help but smile back. She seemed nice, and if she was Blaine's friend then she had to be pretty okay.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "Just, please. Nothing girly. No horses, no princess anything. No books that even look pink." She rolled her eyes at Blaine. "I'm so over the pink," she told him, and he laughed.

"Got it." Paula started towards the teen section, Blaine next to her and Frances following behind. She tried not to listen to their conversation, because it seemed to involve both of their personal lives and, Sarah's influence notwithstanding, Frances had still been raised not to eavesdrop.

"Frances need some books about the same kind of things I did," Blaine said, finally, when they reached a small alcove of space with cozy-looking chairs and two computers, and shelves teeming with books. "Only, you know. Girls." He blushed a little, and Frances suddenly felt bad because he seemed embarrassed.

"Oh, honey," Paula patted him on the shoulder. "Why don't you go check out the shelves. There's some fantasy on the New Books display. Let Frances and I have a few minutes."

Blaine glanced at Frances, like he was unsure about leaving her, but Frances liked the way Paula winked and smiled at her, so she nodded for Blaine to go.

When he had disappeared around the corner, Paula sprung into action, running her finger over the spines of books and pulling some down right away. Others she looked at, weighed them in her hands, and either added them to the growing pile in her arms or tucked them back onto the shelves. When she finished selecting books, she lowered herself into one of the armchairs and nodded for Frances to take the other one.

"You might have to help me get up," Paula said, glowering at her stomach. "Twins," she added, poking at a spot near her bellybutton.

"Oh. Wow. Um. Congratulations?" Frances giggled a little when the spot Paula was poking jumped lightly. "Wait. Was that-"

"Foot," Paula said, nodding. "At least, I think it's a foot. It might be a hand. They feel like little aliens in there."

"That's um. Kind of cool? And a little bit freaky, no offense." Because it was. Frances was both fascinated and a little weirded out.

"Believe me, it's kind of freaky on my end, too. No offense taken." Paula sorted through the books one more time, and then handed them over to Frances, one by one. "If I overwhelm you, tell me. I tend to go overboard when I'm passionate. And getting these books to kids who need them? My biggest passion."

"Um. Okay." Frances turned the first book over in her hands. The cover was vivid blue and pink, the title Am I Blue? curling across the front.

"Short stories," Paula said. "Lots of the authors have other books, so if you like a story and want something else by the author, just keep a list and I'll help you find them when you come back, okay?"

"Sure." The second book didn't look like it was about . . . liking girls, and Paula must have seen the confusion on Frances' face.

"Some books are about lots of things," Paula said. "This one? It's about censorship; the part about figuring out who you are is only one aspect of the story."

"Are there- I mean. I know about Blaine, and one of my friends has two brothers who are- you know. But I don't know any other girls like that."

Paula pulled a small paperback off the bottom of the pile with a light sigh. "You might still be a little young for this, so don't feel like you need to read the whole thing. But when I was 14 I read this and it pretty much changed my life."

The book looked worn, like it had been checked out and read over and over again. Annie on My Mind, the cover said, and the back of the book was blissfully free of any kind of summary. It looked like something Frances might be able to leave on her bedside table and not have it be scrutinized. Not like the other books, which she was sure she was going to have to hide.

"You're not the only girl out there who's scared and confused. You're not the only girl wondering if you like girls, or boys, or both." Paula handed Frances the rest of the books. "That's what these are for. That's what I'm here for, and Blaine. He's been where you are. So have I. You're not alone, Frances."

Frances blinked against unexpected tears in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "It's just, you know, a little scary. My parents- my mother-"

Paula held her gaze. "You don't have to tell anyone anything, not until you're ready, and not until you know what you want to say. There's no right way to do any of this."

Frances was going to ask Paula more questions, but Blaine was suddenly behind her, dangling a book in her face.

"You have to read this, Frannie." Frances took the book, studied the white-dressed figure and the-

"I told you," she scolded him. "No horses."

"They're not horses," Blaine and Paula exclaimed together. "They're called Companions," he went on. "And they talk with their minds."

"Uh huh." Frances was skeptical, even though it was exactly the kind of book she'd been wanting to read for years.

"You have the book that changed my life," Paula said, taking the book from Blaine and placing it on top the others Frances was holding. "This is Blaine's."

"Oh. Okay." Frances stood, tucking the books into her arms, and Blaine nodded at her, a hand on his stomach.

"I'm hungry," he said, leading her over to the desk. "Ready for lunch?"

Paula gave her the form to fill out for a library card, and Frances was surprised to discover that she didn't even need her mother to sign anything to get a card.

"You have the books for three weeks. I'm here every weekday, and the third Saturday of the month, at least until my maternity leave begins, so if you want more books or need anything else, just come by." Paula smiled at her, and Frances couldn't help smiling back.

"I will," she promised. She thought it might be a really easy promise to keep. She liked Paula.

* * *

Blaine waited until they were settled into a booth at the back of the retro diner downtown before diving in and asking the question that he'd been thinking around all morning. "You've been a quiet little mouse all day. Do you want to talk?"

She twisted her straw wrapper around her finger, her cheeks pink. "I do," she said. "I just don't quite know what to say. Or how to ask all the questions in my head." She glanced at Blaine with a pleading expression. "Does it get any easier? Less confusing?"

"Considering that right now I'm a walking mess of confusion, I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask. But most days, once you're sure, yes. It's a little easier and a little less confusing." There was so much Blaine wanted to tell her, but he also remembered how overwhelming everything felt when he was coming out to himself, and he didn't want to say too much. "It's like, once you figure it out, you make sense."

"I'm just not sure how to get sure." She looked so frustrated. "I mean, there was that one time with- um. When I kissed my friend. But that's all, really."

"Could you talk with your friend? Maybe she'd be able to help, especially if you tell her you're confused."

Frannie put a hand over her face. "Um... I don't think I want to _talk. _ That's the problem."

"You liked the kissing."

Frannie's cheeks were red-hot, but she smiled weakly at him. "Yeah."

"Kissing is good. And fun. But I'm guessing you've been thinking about things for longer than that."

"Well..." Frannie bit her lip. "I had a dream. Last fall, when Sarah and I started to be friends again. It was... confusing, then, but I think I understand a little better now. But she - I'm pretty sure she doesn't like girls. Or boys. I don't really know."

She laid her head back on the seat and made a noise of frustration. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I always thought that... liking someone... it was supposed to be nice, you know? But all I can think about is how disappointed my mother's going to be in me when she finds out."

Blaine hummed in understanding. "I don't think my father's said more than a handful of things to me since I went to Dalton. I'm a disgrace to him, because I can't control how I love." He snorted. "I thought he would be okay with me, once he came out himself, but he wasn't any more accepting of the _other_ parts of me than he'd ever been. So I understand why you're worried about that."

"What do you do, then? What about your mom?"

"My mom, she's okay. I mean, she's not as distant as my dad, but she's not totally accepting either. But I think, it takes parents a while sometimes." He patted Frannie's knee gently. "I knew for two years before I told my parents. I had time to adjust, but it was a shock to them."

She startled as the waitress brought their plates, and busied herself with squeezing ketchup next to her fries. "I think my dad would be all right. He's not cool like some kids' parents, but he loves me. I mean, no matter what, I think he would love me. Like, if I robbed a bank. Not that I would rob a bank, but - if I did, I think my dad would be disappointed, but he'd still like me, and would be there to take care of me. My mother would... be embarrassed. If anybody found out her daughter was a... a bank robber." She said it with a curl of her lip, like it was appalling. "It'd all be about her."

"Oh, honey," Blaine said in sympathy. "I'm sorry. I wish I could make that better for you. But you need to remember that who you love isn't about anybody else . . . just you and the other people. As long as you're happy, that's the most important thing."

Frannie sighed, long and with every bit of the twelve-year-old angst that Blaine remembered so well. "What do you do if you're not happy, though? How is being... weird... going to make me happy? Why can't I just be normal?" Then she seemed to realize what she'd said, and she stared at Blaine in horror, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh - Blaine, I didn't mean, I mean, not that you're not - I don't think - "

Blaine chewed carefully on a corner of his grilled cheese and looked Frannie directly in her anguished eyes. He took both her hands in his, and worked hard to keep his voice gentle. "Don't apologize. I know you didn't mean anything by it. What you're going through, it's scary, and it's hard and it's not something that's going to resolve itself overnight." He tried to send her calm and strength, as if he could just will her to feel better.

"There are lots of different kinds of normal," he told her finally. "I know that's hard to see, right now. But trust me. Someday, maybe sooner than you think, you'll find everything you never knew you wanted, and it's going to feel like the best kind of home." He smiled, thinking of Finn and how complete he felt after he'd been disciplined and was safe in Finn's arms.

_Home_. He sighed, and snagged a fry off of Frances' plate, running it through her ketchup before popping it into his mouth.

"You- you have that? Home?"

Blaine swallowed, and shook his head. "Not yet," he said softly, "but I'm getting there."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 - **concurrent with season 1 finale (1.22 Journey to Regionals)

It might have been the beautiful weather, but for whatever reason, the crowd in the coffeehouse was significantly smaller than usual. Irene eyed Carl, sitting by himself in the back at his usual table, reading what looked like a medical journal. She poured herself a cup of tea, walked over and sat down at the table across from him with the newspaper.

He raised an eyebrow at her cup. "No coffee, huh?"

"You work in a coffee house, you get mighty sick of coffee," she said, stirring in another sprinkle of sugar. "I usually stick with the oolong."

The silence between them was comfortable for a few minutes while they sipped and read. "Your boy not coming today?"

"Mmmm," he said, shaking his head. "He's performing at a regional competition with his school's Glee club today. I bet Patrick's doing the same thing with his own school."

Irene set her mug down on the table and leaned in, glaring at him. "You're telling me that Christopher - that boy of yours - is in _high school?"_

Carl regarded her with an impassive gaze. "Trust me, anything you can say to me, I've already gone over a thousand times in my head. Nothing to do for it. He was a young Dom with two boys of his own when we met, and I was mentoring him, and - things progressed."

Irene shook her head, trying not to let her disapproval overwhelm her ability to think rationally. She knew Carl, knew his standing in the community. He wasn't reckless; nor was he given to drama or other tiresome displays of emotion. "You could keep it in your pants until he's eighteen."

"Who says I'm not?" Carl said mildly. He sipped his coffee. "And the age of consent in Ohio is sixteen. He's seventeen."

She scoffed. "_Now _are you trying to tell me his mama would be okay if she knew what the two of you were doing, even though he's not legally old enough to make up his own mind?"

To her surprise, he smiled. "His mama's entirely aware of what's going on between the two of us. And she's a very nice woman." Then he sighed, his smile looking more sheepish. "And she's seven years younger than I am."

"For the love of Mike," Irene said, rolling her eyes. "Carl Howell, you're going to be the death of me." She sipped her tea for a minute. Finally she sighed. "Well, it's clear as daylight that the two of you are in love. I'm not going to deny the chemistry between you two, either. Even a dried up old dyke like myself can tell you're hot as griddlecakes for each other. And knowing you, I'd bet my best espresso machine that you're spankin' the dickens out of that boy."

Carl ducked behind his periodical, smiling. Irene could see it was called _Journal of Dental Education_. "Could never put one past you, Irene."

"Yeah. And I'm gonna bet his mama don't know anything about _that."_

"Wrong again," he said blithely, flipping a page.

She stared at him again before taking another sip of her own tea. "She in the scene too, then?"

"I don't think so. Maybe once upon a time, but she strikes me as pretty vanilla now." His eyes met Irene's briefly. "She's dating Christopher's boyfriend's dad. Well, one of his boyfriends."

"Carl..." Irene shook her head. "You and your _complicated._ I thought you were done with that poly crap."

"Yeah, well... that was a long time ago. This is now." He clearly wasn't going to budge. "I've got no illusions. Christopher's a young man. He has lots of time to make choices. Right now, this is his choice: to give himself to me. And I'm not going to say no to something this good."

Irene let the tightening of her mouth look like a frown, and ignored the lump in her throat. "Fair enough. It's just been quite a while since I saw you at events with anybody but your blonde boytoy. What's he up to these days, anyway?"

Carl's answering smile was genuine. "Davis is making future plans with Tessera's head chef."

Irene choked on her tea. "Davis and _James?_ Lord in heaven. That's..." She considered this. "Actually, that's a pretty good match. He having just as many problems as you did, getting him to mind?"

"Well," he said, his eyes gleaming, "he's got Tess right there. So if there's a problem, Davis gets some hands-on help." Carl folded his journal and set it down on the table. "He's really happy. And he's getting what he needs. It's a relief, I'll tell you, after all these years - if I couldn't do it, at least that he finally found somebody who could."

"Yes," she agreed. She indicated the empty stage. "And your boy Christopher. He's taking care of Patrick?"

Carl's smile faded somewhat, and he contemplated the cup in his hand. "He is. It's... a healing process, I think, for both of them. Patrick's clearly new to this, and fragile, and probably dealing with some past abuse. And Christopher... well, back in November, he let his temper and his ego get away from him with one of his boys. It wasn't a pretty scene." He grimaced. "Needless to say, since then he's been a little gunshy about Topping anyone. I've been trying to encourage him, give him some room to work with Patrick, and he has some of this dynamic with his other lover as well..."

Irene regarded him steadily as he trailed off. _"They're_ not lovers, though," she prompted.

"Who?"

"Christopher and Patrick," she said. She cocked an eyebrow. "Right?"

"N-oooo," Carl said, hesitating. "Not right now. I don't think Patrick's ready for that. But... well, let's just say I might be able to recognize certain trends in Christopher's attraction to others. He started out with it _not being sexual,_ but now - well, there's something there between the two of them." He gave a short laugh. "It was like that with him and me, too."

"Well, there's no question about the two of _you_ bein' sexual," she said, shaking her head. "If I could bottle the eye contact between the two of you, I'd have a perfect aphrodisiac."

Carl closed his eyes for just a moment, taking a deep, satisfied breath. "Yes."

Then he jerked forward, and slipped his hand down into his pants pocket to pull out his vibrating phone. "I'm never going to get used to that," he muttered, and flipped the phone open. "Yes, Finn?"

Irene watched his eyes go from curious to shocked in two seconds. "What?" she hissed, but he waved her away, sitting forward in his seat and nearly knocking over his coffee.

"Is she okay? How's the baby? Is Puck - all right, Finn, just breathe, all right? I'm right here." Irene had vanished from his awareness; all his attention was on his conversation. She thought it was lucky that the coffeeshop wasn't more populated, because he would certainly have drawn more attention than he'd have wanted. "Which hospital is she at? Do you want me to come out there?" He listened a few more moments. "Okay. I'll be there as quickly as I can. Just hang on. It's going to be fine. She's young and healthy." Irene saw an overwhelmed smile pass over his lips. "Congratulations... and tell Puck and Kurt the same."

_Finn,_ Irene thought, filing the name away, and decided not to mention anything to Carl about his slip.

Carl slowly set his phone down on the table. Then he looked up at Irene, and the expression on his face was nothing short of joyous. He hesitated, then laughed. "Uh - it looks like F- Christopher's boyfriend is a father."

"I imagine he knew this was coming," she drawled, and he laughed again, shaking his head.

"Yeah, he... he knew. It's just a little earlier than they'd expected. I think she was supposed to be due in three weeks. But she's fine, and the baby's fine. I - I have to go." But he didn't push his chair out, and when Irene put out a hand to touch his, he gripped it in apparent desperation.

"Carl?" she said softly.

"It's... god, Irene. It's like Rachel all over again. And this girl, Quinn... she's having babies, and she's _Rachel's age."_ He took a shaky breath. "Hell, she's Rachel's _friend._ Which is a little weird, but -"

"Honey, you passed weird when you decided to start that relationship with Shelby and Davis back in college." Irene waited for Carl's smile, and saw him relax a little. She squeezed his hand. "So, the next generation is havin' babies. So what? Maybe a little early, true, but we're all getting older."

Carl nodded, his gaze far away. "Yeah, well... Shelby's got a vested interest in this one. She's adopting her." He picked up the phone, sighing and holding up a hand at Irene's shocked expression. "Don't say it."

"She's _what?"_ Irene hissed. "She - what, she decided she didn't mess up enough with the first two, so she'd take a stab at a third?"

"Now, that's not fair," Carl said stubbornly, punching in a number. "She was eighteen when Rachel was born, a rising star. There was no way she was going to be ready to take care of a baby. Yeah, we were stupid, but she's never regretted carrying her to term. And now she's finally in a place where she... she can..."

Irene felt him clutch at her hand, and he squeezed his eyes together and took a sharp breath. "Hey," she said, but he shook his head, holding up one hand for her to give him a moment, and she went quiet.

He heard the voice on the other end of the phone, and he put on a false cheer. "Shelby," he said. "You've heard? Did Puck call you?" His smile wasn't fake, anyway. "Congratulations, honey. I can't wait to meet her. Yeah. I'll be there in a little over an hour. Finn was so excited. Okay, I'll see you there."

"You've got to explain this all to me sometime," Irene said, as he stood, "but not now. Right now you should be there with your boy, and his family."

"His family. Yeah." Carl looked less than enthusiastic about this, but he nodded. "I should call Carole; I bet she's going to be just as anxious about the baby." He shot Irene a sudden grin. "They're taking her down to Tessera for the rest of the school year, Puck and his lover, to spend a little time learning to be a father. Shelby's joining them after she wraps things up at Carmel."

"Christ." Irene closed her eyes and shook her head. "I have too many questions. Just - go. Get the hell over to the hospital." She shooed him away from the table, appreciating his smile.

"Thanks, Irene," he said. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "We'll talk soon."

_Complicated ain't the half of it,_ she thought, watching him head out the door, his briefcase over his shoulder. _But Carl's never done things halfway._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 **- June, after the conclusion of season 1

"So he's gone now?" Blaine said, stepping off the curb and walking across the street. He didn't even look to see if there was traffic, but Finn's eyes were open in both directions. _Keeping him safe was sometimes a full-time job,_ he thought as they made their way to the east side of the street.

"He's visiting a friend in Iowa," Finn nodded, putting one hand on the small of his back. The gesture was nearly unconscious at this point, but when he was thinking about it, he realized how often he did it with Blaine now. "She's going to help him take care of the baby until school's out. They're splitting custody, him and... another person. It's complicated, but I think it'll be fine."

"Wow. A baby. And you - you're okay with that?" Blaine's eyes were wide, considering the implications. "He's your age, right?"

"Yeah, my age. There are lots of people, willing to help. I think it'll be fine."

Blaine touched Finn's arm. "You said that already."

"Uh. Yeah. I guess I did." It wasn't easy, knowing that Puck would be gone for six weeks, but he figured it was better this way. There was no way they'd get enough sleep, the six of them, or be able to study for finals, with a brand-new baby in the house. He shrugged it off. "Anyway. You've got a big day coming up soon, right?"

For a moment, Blaine looked confused, but his face cleared as Finn added, "Your birthday?"

"Oh - yeah!" Blaine laughed. "I'll be sixteen on the 13th. Wait... how did you know?"

"Your friend David's terrible at keeping a secret," he said, smiling. He paused on the next street corner and reached a hand into his pocket as Blaine pushed the crossing signal. "I have something for you."

"You... you do?" Blaine's smile was a little heartbreaking to Finn. There were so many things he wanted to say. _I wish it were more_ was top of the list. _You deserve to feel special_ was right up there, too.

Finn handed him a small rectangular envelope. "You're going to have to skip boxing practice, if we're going to make it on time."

"Make it where?" said Blaine, opening the envelope eagerly. He slipped two fingers inside and dug out two rectangular pieces of tagboard. When he read what was printed on them, he froze, his eyes on the tickets.

"Cincinnati," Finn said, trying not to sound nervous. "You, uh... you think you can go? I already asked my mom and she said I can drive."

"Finn," Blaine breathed, and Finn shivered to hear Blaine say his name, like _that._ "I can't believe it. You got us tickets to see the Indigo Girls?"

Then he threw his arms around Finn's waist and hugged him, apparently not at all concerned about the other passers-by, who were mostly just watching them with curiosity. Finn put one hand on his back and the other on his head and held on, for as long as Blaine was willing to let him.

"Yeah, I got us tickets."_ There was no way I could have not done it. _"You think you can convince your dad it's okay? I know he's kind of strict, and it's kind of a long drive."

"I think I can." Blaine let go, gazing at the tickets in his hand, his eyes bright. Then he glanced up at Finn, his face falling. "Except... I hate to say this, Finn, because I _really_ want to go."

"What is it?"

"Well, there's a girl I used to babysit for. She's more like a friend, now, but she's a big fan, and we always said that if we were going to go see them in concert, we'd go together. It was kind of a promise. And I hate to break it to her. She'd be devastated. She... she really needs their music. You know what I mean?"

Finn thought he might. He considered Blaine's conflicted face for a moment, then sighed. "Well... why don't you invite her along?"

Blaine broke into a smile, and he laughed, surprised. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

_No, Blaine. This could easily have become a date, but now it definitely won't be. It's better this way. _"It's fine," he promised. "Maybe... I have a younger friend who might want to come along, too. She likes their music a lot, and she's in sixth grade this year."

"My friend, too," Blaine nodded. "All right, as long as you don't think it's a problem? And if it's not too late to get two more tickets?"

"I'll take care of it." Finn couldn't resist putting an arm around him, and Blaine leaned in, quivering with excitement. "It's going to be fantastic."

"_You're_ fantastic," Blaine said, stroking Finn's shirt, and looking up at him in a way that made him flush. Nobody looked at him that way. Nobody except Blaine. "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure," he murmured, and dared to plant one kiss on his curls.

* * *

Blaine could feel Francie shaking and bouncing next to him as they waited on her front porch for Finn to pick them up.

"This is _so awesome_," she squealed, gripping his arm. "I can't believe my mom is letting me go. It's only because you're going, too, you know."

Blaine put an arm around her shoulders to settle her. "I know. She trusts me with you."

"She should trust me with _me_," Francie sighed, sounding so much like a put-out teenager.

"She will, someday," Blaine said. "But she's your mom, and it's her job to worry. But _I'm_ your friend, and it's my job to take you to your first concert."

"I'm not, um. Underdressed?" Francie gestured to her jeans and the vintage-style "Save Ferris" t-shirt Blaine had given her for Christmas.

"No," Blaine shook his head. "Definitely not underdressed. C'mere." He pulled her close, and rested his chin on top of her head. "You're going to be taller than me, soon."

"But you'll always be older," she sighed. "I wish you were my brother."

Blaine felt unexpected tears rise in his eyes, but he blinked them back and just hugged Francie tighter. "I already am, little sister. Always." Because Francie really _had_ always been like his sister, even when she was a little girl. He kissed her hair, and tried to brush off the seriousness of the moment by pretending to brush wisps of it out of his face, but when she pulled away he could she that she was crying, too.

"Thank you," she whispered, wiping at her face. "Your dad was okay with you going? I mean, I know he's all about your schoolwork and everything."

"I've done really well at Dalton. He told me I should go and have a good time." He cocked his head and smiled sideways at Francie. "As long as I'm in class at 8 am tomorrow, I could probably stay out all night and he wouldn't care, as long as he never found out."

"And your friend who's driving - Christopher? He got the tickets, right? I can't believe he's okay with me coming along." She made a face. "I'm just a kid."

"You're not _just_ anything, Francie. And Christopher's a pretty special guy."

Francie leaned back on the railing of her porch, squinting at him. "Yeah. You keep telling me. But he's _not_ your boyfriend, right?"

"He's not," he insisted. "And don't try to tease him. He already has a boyfriend."

But Blaine watched her stiffen as the Navigator pulled into her driveway. Francie turned confused eyes on Blaine, then back to the SUV. "What's Finn doing here?"

"What?" Blaine said, but he stopped when he saw the expression on Finn's face as he climbed out of the Navigator.

"Our small world just got smaller," Finn said, shaking his head. He gestured at the passenger side, where a small dark-haired girl was climbing out, staring incredulously at Francie.

"What the fuck?" she said, and Finn laughed.

Francie turned to Blaine and hissed, _"This..._ is Christopher?"

Blaine nodded, then watched, stunned, as Francie ran down the steps and wrapped her arms around Finn. "_You're_ taking us to the Indigo Girls, Finn?"

"Yep," Finn said, hugging her back. "You girls climb in the back and get buckled up."

Francie reached out and took the dark-haired girl's hand, who smiled broadly at her, and they walked back to the car, chattering happily. Blaine started, because for a moment, the smile looked _strangely _familiar, but then Finn was there, laughing, and he had to laugh too.

"Looks like you all already know each other?" he said. Finn nodded.

"Sarah and Frances have been friends - well, at least they've known each other since they were little kids."

Blaine blinked. "Sarah? That's... oh my god." He waggled a finger at the tinted windows. "I used to _babysit_ her. When I was in fifth grade!"

Finn bit his lip. "This is getting weirder and weirder," he admitted. "And somehow I think it's not over yet."

* * *

It turned out that Sarah barely remembered Blaine, even after he and Francie - Frances - related several tales of times they'd played together as children or gone to the public library or the sandbox with Blaine. "Sorry," she said flatly. "I just don't recall much about my childhood. It's better that way."

"You're telling me you don't remember _King and King?"_ Frances shook her head, poking at Sarah. Blaine watched her from the front seat, trying not to stare at their easy banter. "We used to read that book every week at the library. Blaine was the first person ever to tell me it was okay for a boy to want to marry another boy."

"Well, duh," said Sarah, tossing her curls out of her face.

"Just because _you_ always knew that, doesn't mean _everybody_ did," Frances scolded her.

"How old were you?" Finn asked, nodding at Blaine.

"What, when I told them that?"

"Yeah."

Blaine thought about that summer, taking care of Sarah and Frances, and spending time at the library with Dave. "Eleven."

"Did- did you _know_, then?"

"What, that I was gay?"

"Yeah."

Blaine shrugged. "I knew I was different. I came out in sixth grade, but I think I knew really young. Like, third or fourth grade, I just didn't understand what it meant, you know?"

"Yeah," Finn said. "Wow. That's _really_ young, though," Finn blinked at him.

Blaine just nodded. "Yeah. But I also had someone who told me I was okay just how I was, then, and I think it meant something."

Sarah shrugged. "I never had anybody tell me that. Maybe my brother. And I turned out okay."

Frances sighed, and leaned a little closer to Sarah. "Yeah," she agreed, "but you're strong. You're not like Blaine and me." She reached her hand out to Blaine's where it rested on the console between the seats.

Blaine squeezed her hand. "You and me, we need people out there, to help keep us standing when we can't do it ourselves," he told her, thinking that Frances was pretty intuitive.

"I need people, like that, sometimes, too," Finn pointed out.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I don't need _anybody._"

Frances looked like she might be about to disagree, but she closed her mouth on her comment and gazed out the window instead. Blaine almost smiled. He and Francie really were a lot alike.

* * *

Finn stopped for a fast drive-through dinner on the outskirts of Cincinnati, and had to force Blaine to put his wallet away. "This is your birthday present. It's my treat."

"But-" Blaine started to argue, and Finn had to be strong.

"Blaine. Let me take care of this." He used his Voice, but pitched it low, and Blaine settled back against his seat. Finn pretended not to see Sarah, seeking out his eyes in the rearview, her face a little surprised for an instant before she broke into a small smile. He nodded at her, once.

When Blaine went to the bathroom, Frances pounced on Finn. "He doesn't know _anything_ about your other boyfriends," she hissed. "He said you have _one._ What the fuck is going on, Finn? You're not lying to him, are you?"

"No! I - no. I'm not lying." He glanced between Sarah and Frances. "It's private. I call him Patrick, at home. Blaine - he was worried about people in Lima finding out about who he is, about him and me."

"What's he worried about if you're not his boyfriend?" Frances shook her head. "I'm really confused now."

"I'm not his boyfriend," Finn reassured her.

"What Blaine said, about needing people?" Sarah looked at Frances, with a sideways glance at Finn. He nodded at her again, thinking that maybe Sarah could explain it better than he could.

"Yeah?" Frances looked interested, but still puzzled.

"Finn does that, for him. Takes care of him. Keeps him from hurting, from falling. He's his resin."

"Oh." Finn watched Frances carefully nibble the edges of her cheeseburger, deep in thought. "Okay," she said finally. "As long as you're not lying to him, because he's like my brother and he doesn't need any more hurt in his life."

Sarah leaned over and put an arm around Francie, grinning at her fierce expression. "Don't worry," she said. "I'll take care of it, if Finn hurts him. I can totally beat him up. Noah taught me how to throw a mean punch."

They were all laughing when Blaine returned to the car, and made a game out of gathering all the trash into one of the plastic bags Kurt kept in the console. Finn hopped out and tossed the bag into the trash, and climbed back up into the driver's seat. They'd be there right on time, if they didn't hit any more traffic.

The parking lot was nearly overflowing when they got to Greaves Concert Hall, just over the Kentucky border in Highland Heights. Finn locked the car and herded them all toward the building. It was already dark out. "Don't forget where we parked," Sarah said.

He nodded, holding the door open for them. "I usually remember stuff like that."

Sarah and Frances weren't the youngest ones in the audience, but they were close. Finn felt a little on the young side himself - and that wasn't the only reason he felt out of place. "Uh," he whispered to Blaine. "There aren't any _guys_ here."

"Because the Girls have a really huge feminist and lesbian following, Finn." Blaine patted his arm like he was humoring him or something.

"Whatever," Finn said after a long pause. "The music's going to be awesome."

The concert hall was standing room only, and they were able to move right up front, less than ten feet from the stage. "_Wow,"_ Frances said, looking around with big eyes.

Blaine made a noise of excitement, and pointed, grabbing Sarah's shoulder. "See that woman up there in the wings? She's their bass and keyboard player." He grinned. "Her name's Sara, too."

"Cool," Sarah said. Finn could see her trying to be detached, but her eyes were sparkling, and she bounced a little on her toes.

Finn got drinks for all four of them and passed them out just as the lights came down. Frances clutched at Blaine's arm. "It's not going to be too loud, is it?" she called nervously.

It wasn't _too _loud. Finn guessed a hard rock concert would have been louder. But the dark-haired member of the duo could really jam on the guitar, and with their band, the four of them made a significant noise. He wished Puck had been able to be there. He'd sounded more than a little jealous when Finn had told him about the concert on the phone, but he wouldn't ever say _don't go without me._

They played a few songs from their new album, Poseidon and the Bitter Bug, with which Finn was only a little familiar, but he clapped anyway and decided he'd buy the album on the way out. There were several old ones he knew from the mix Kurt had given him, including Kid Fears, the one Blaine had sung in the coffeehouse. Blaine took his hand when they played the opening riff, and leaned toward him.

"Thank you again, for this, Finn," he said, and kissed Finn's cheek. Finn felt the spot tingle, even after Blaine had moved his lips away. Even after they both sang themselves hoarse with the rest of the audience, echoing the lyrics back to the duo onstage.

"You're welcome," he whispered into Blaine's ear as the band segued into a more mellow song. He pulled Blaine back against his chest, wrapped his arms tight around Blaine, and felt him snuggle in and sigh happily.

He felt Blaine singing along before he heard him, the words rumbling lightly into Finn's chest and radiating warmth through his body.

_Maybe we'll make Texas by the morning  
__Light the bayou with our tail lights in the night  
__800 miles to El Paso from the state line  
__And we never have the money for the flight_

_I'm in the the backseat sleepy from the travel,  
__Played our hearts out all night long in New Orleans  
__I'm dirty from the diesel fumes, drinking coffee black  
__When the first breath of Texas comes in clean_

_And there's something 'bout the Southland in the springtime  
__Where the waters flow with confidence and reason  
__Though I miss her when I'm gone, it won't ever be too long  
__Till I'm home again to spend my favorite season  
__When God made me born a Yankee he was teasin'  
_'_cause there's no place like home and none more pleasin'  
__Than the Southland in the springtime_

Everyone around them was singing too, even Frances and Sarah next to them, holding hands and looking like they'd never been happier. Finn's brain was telling him _no, don't_, but the collar of Blaine's t-shirt was bunched up and the very tempting side of his neck was bared. And Finn's lips were right there, but he could hear Carl admonishing him. _Boundaries, Finn. Remember the boundaries, they need to be clear for both of you._

But Finn felt drawn to that spot on his neck, and before he could battle anymore he just took a breath, leaned in, and pressed his lips there. Blaine's skin was warm and felt soft, and he smelled spicy and sweet. He felt Blaine stiffen for a brief moment, then relax even more, and when Finn pulled his lips away, they both sighed.

_Oh, fuck_, Finn thought. _Now we're __**really**__ in trouble._

* * *

Blaine made himself breathe, and he tried to ignore the weight of Finn's arms around him, the warmth of his body. The little puffs of his breath against Blaine's neck. And - _oh_ - Finn was _kissing his neck_, and it felt _so so good_, and Blaine tensed because it was unexpected, but it also felt right, and that rightness helped him relax. Finn sighed into his ear, even as Blaine let out a light breath.

Now things just felt complicated.

Blaine didn't recognize the next song, so he figured it must be something new, or a cover he wasn't familiar with. But Emily's quiet voice always affected him, so he listened carefully.

_I couldn't think of a thing to write  
__On your birthday card  
__Considered the poets  
__But they didn't know what  
__Lay quiet inside my heart_

_I thought of Atlanta  
__I thought of Toronto  
__And all of the places we've been  
__I filled up my tea and looked into the trees  
__And still came up empty again_

_So I guess the next time you see me  
__In a world of partial truths  
__You will fully believe me  
__I have nothing to give except for to live  
__Like the person you know me to be_

_I can clean up the kitchen  
__And fold up your clothes  
__Neatly as I am able  
__Wrap a box up with ties for a surprise  
__And order you flowers for the table_

_I could book us a trip on a plane or ship  
__I know how much you love the sun  
__You could gamble on me like the lottery  
__And I'll make you feel like you've won_

Blaine heard Emily listing all the ways she could show her partner she loved her, and felt a glow begin inside him. _I can do those things,_ he thought. _Maybe... maybe I could do that, for someone... someday. I could do them well enough that he would have to love me. I could be good enough, that he would have to approve of me. _

_And I'll bet the next time you see me  
__In a world of partial truths you will fully believe me  
__I have nothing to give except for to live  
__Like the person you know me to be_

_Life is short and so on  
__I'd like to give you something to go on  
__Grow on_

_They recently paved the walk on our street  
__We looked at the shiny cement  
__We stopped the car ready to carve  
__Our names into permanence_

_For a moment we're kids  
__Intent on a whim  
__There is no shadowy past  
__But even so the urge is to go  
__And put something down that will last_

_So here goes  
__The next time I show up for you  
__You will know and believe  
__I am ready to give  
__Ready to live like the person you know me to be_

Blaine wasn't anywhere _near_ ready to think about the kind of commitment that went deep enough for a lifetime, but these... these were words he could believe in. _Ready to live like the person you know me to be._ _I can do that, too. Even if the person he knows me to be is broken and needy and confused all the time. _He thought of the boy from the club, and wondered if _he_ could have accepted Blaine that way.

He shuddered out a breath. "That was..." Blaine leaned back into Finn, and Finn shifted to hold him up.

"Yeah," Finn agreed. Apparently those were the only words they needed.

Blaine felt him stiffen as Emily began the next song. "Hell," he muttered, and clutched more tightly at Blaine. He wasn't going to ask him to let go, but Blaine wished he understood the significance of the song.

_A hard knock  
__A cold clock  
__Ticking off my time  
__A long look  
__But no luck  
__Couldn't seem to find  
__Or unwind  
__Into peace of mind  
__While I was trying_

_A quick glance  
__A big chance  
__My heart beat like a drum  
__I saw you  
__And I knew  
__Chances just don't come  
__Round again  
__Not like this  
__First a laugh  
__Then a kiss_

_And I'm free in you  
__I've got no worries on my mind  
__I know what to do  
__That's to treat you right  
__And love you kind  
__Thank you ever on my mind  
__Love is just like breathing  
__When it's true  
__And I'm free in you..._

Halfway through the song, Blaine felt the shaking begin, but he didn't recognize the significance until he felt the moisture dripping on his face from above. _Finn is - crying?_ He jerked his eyes up behind him, and Finn took two steps back, wiping his eyes with one hand and trying to disguise his grimace with the other.

"Finn?" he said. Finn shook his head and turned away, and Blaine stood, alone and anxious, in the midst of the huge crowd of spectators.

The bridge appeared to drive him deeper into misery, but by the time the last chorus came around, Finn was better able to cope, and he was even singing along. Blaine began to relax again.

* * *

Finn knew how hard it was for _him_ to see Carl get upset in any way, and he tried to pull himself together. _For Blaine's sake._ "I'm okay," he murmured.

"I've just never seen you..." He gestured at Finn, and Finn nodded.

"It's these songs. Too much history. Too much meaning - I can't listen to them without _being there,_ all over again."

Blaine nodded like he understood.

They loaded the girls, drowsy and happy, into the back of the Navigator. By the time they hit I-71, they were fast asleep.

"You okay driving home?" Blaine asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Too much on my mind, anyway."

Blaine hesitated before saying, "You can tell me about it?"

Finn gave him an oblique glance, because he wasn't at all sure he could, but he sighed and gave it a try. "Uh, back in January... I went away for a weekend, to California. I have some... friends, musician friends. They sang one of the songs you sang at the coffeehouse. The one by P!nk?"

Blaine blinked. "I wouldn't have sung a P!nk song at the - oh, wait, you mean Glitter in the Air?" Finn nodded. "They sang that one?"

"Yeah. And... I totally fell apart." He shrugged sheepishly.

Blaine looked baffled. "Why?"

"Because _you_ sang it," Finn said. There was a pause. Finn sighed.

"You cried because... I sang a song?" Now Blaine sounded positively uncomfortable.

"Yeah." Finn kept his eyes on the road. "Because of how it made me feel. Because - because that's how I feel."

"Finn." Blaine took a shaky breath. "I... I'm sorry, I said you could tell me, but... I don't think I can hear this."

"Yeah," Finn whispered. "That's what I thought. It's okay. I'll take you home."

Miles later, Blaine touched his arm, and Finn just let him. "I had a great time," he said.

"Me, too, Blaine."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 **- last week of sophomore year

The day after the concert, Blaine got a phone call from his father. He let it go to voicemail because he didn't want to deal, and left it until well after dinner before checking it.

_Thomas and I are taking a weekend away. You can't come here this weekend. I don't want you in the house alone._

Blaine sighed, erased the message, and texted Finn.

_No coffeehouse Sat. Dad away, can't go home._

Blaine settled in at his desk to work on his geometry, not expecting a reply from Finn until much later because of the juggling to his usual schedule that a Tuesday concert had caused, but his phone buzzed at his elbow not five minutes later.

_Can't go either. Finals next week. C. making me study :(_

Blaine breathed a sigh of relief at being able to have a little time and space from Finn to try to deal with the crazy feelings he'd been holding back all day. He couldn't erase the feeling of being in Finn's arms, of Finn's lips against the side of his neck. Of the gnawing fear in his stomach when Finn had tried to tell him about Glitter in the Air.

It was too much.

Blaine knew, of course, that Finn was probably at least half in love with him. He also knew that he was probably more than half in love with Finn... and he couldn't have that.

He wasn't worthy of Finn's love. He was too needy, too broken, too _imperfect_. And what about the other people in Finn's life? How would Blaine possibly fit into all of that, if he were to tell Finn that maybe he _did_ want more than what they already shared? He was already taking time away from Finn and Carl. He never asked, but he was sure he was taking time away from the boyfriend who was still in town. He tried not to ask about the one who was away, because it made Finn's face go cloudy in a way that left Blaine unsettled.

He started to feel anxious, the kind of skin-itching jitters that usually had him calling Finn. But he couldn't do that, not tonight. It was too late for the gym, for running or boxing or just anything.

It was either Finn or . . . _no. _He couldn't do _that_, not anymore. Not after he'd promised Finn. Not after he'd explained it all to Jeff, why he wouldn't and couldn't.

But maybe . . .

He padded into the hall, past doors closed tight and white boards scrawled with notations like _wake me after finals_ and _AP Euro History, disturb on penalty of death_, to where Jeff's door was surprisingly open. Blaine knocked anyway on the doorframe, and Jeff waved him in. He was sitting on his bed, laptop on his knees and a stack of library books open on the floor.

"Hey," Blaine said softly. "I'm not bothering you, am I?"

"Nah," Jeff smiled. "Just a paper for English. If I didn't have to cite outside sources, I could write it in my sleep. What's up?"

Blaine stared at his socks. "Just . . . restless, I guess. Needed company."

"Where's your guy? Isn't Wednesday your usual thing?"

"We went to that concert last night. He had to be home tonight."

Jeff set his laptop carefully on his pillows, and patted the foot of his bed. "C'mere. Sit. Tell me what's going on. You seem . . . anxious."

"God." Blaine heaved a sigh. "It's _so_ complicated."

"Okay. First. Take a breath." Jeff waited while Blaine took in a deep breath the way Finn sometimes asked him to do when he got too caught up in his own head. "Good," Jeff nodded. "Now - what's so complicated about it?"

"Should I start with his three boyfriends and his girlfriend?" he snapped. "Or that I told him I didn't want kissing or anything sexual?"

Jeff shook his head. "What would Finn do if he heard you talking like that?"

Blaine gulped. He knew he was complaining in a way that would have gotten him at least a handful of swats from Finn, but this was _Jeff_ he was talking to, and he'd thought - he figured he was safe here, but... "Um... he'd have me over his knee in a heartbeat."

"Well. I can't do that, so I'll just remind you to watch your tone. And now, start at the beginning. Finn is poly, then." It wasn't a question, and Blaine cocked his head and just sort of stared at Jeff.

"How do you know all of this stuff, anyway? I mean, aren't you being groomed to be a Young Republican or something?"

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Please. My father's ambitions aren't mine. I may be a Dalton legacy, but my family is pretty colorful. My oldest sister is in a triad, and one of her boyfriends is totally kinky. It's kind of awesome, actually." Jeff blushed a little, and Blaine wanted to ask more about triads and the kinky boyfriend who clearly had some effect on Jeff, but it wasn't the time.

Jeff nodded, like he knew what Blaine was thinking. "It's okay. You can ask me anything you want, but you need to tell me about your drama first."

"I can try," Blaine said. "So. Finn and I decided at the beginning that we didn't want a relationship. He's got enough of that, and really, I can hardly take care of myself. I'm not, um. I'm not _boyfriend_ material. And Finn's got all these other people. I'm just . . . _me_. I can't compete with what he already has."

"Are you trying to tell me that you're not worthy of Finn's time and attention? That you're not good enough?"

Blaine shook his head. "I'm never good enough. I've never _been_ good enough, and I'm still not."

"What happened, that's got you feeling this way? I mean, if things were just platonic for the two of you?" Jeff shifted, settled back against his pillows.

"We went to see the Indigo Girls, and he held me for most of the show. And then we were talking about how music made us feel, and he was about to tell me he had feelings for me, but I was too scared to hear it. So I told him I couldn't."

"So what's the problem?"

"I _want_ to. I want to hear him tell me how he feels. I want to tell him that I think I might love him, even though I _know_ I shouldn't, because it's crossing the line we both agreed to." Blaine felt himself slipping back into a whine, but a stern look from Jeff jolted him back into himself and he lowered his voice a bit.

"What's the worst thing that could happen, if you let things evolve from where they are?" Blaine felt Jeff's eyes boring into him, and even though he wanted to look away he couldn't.

Blaine tried to hold the words back, the flood of fears and feelings he'd been choking on all day. But Jeff just waited, patient and calm. "What happens if I tell him I love him and he doesn't want me? Or doesn't want to keep doing _this?_ Because I need it, Jeff. God, I need it so badly, and I don't think I'd be able to handle it if he decided it was too much. If _I_ was too much."

"You're kind of a mess, aren't you, babe?" Jeff was so matter-of-fact about everything. It was kind of nice. It made Blaine feel at ease, talking with him like this.

"I told Finn that, the first time we ever talked, that I'm pretty much always a mess."

Jeff smiled. "Did that make him run?"

"No."

"What's the worst he's ever seen you at?"

Blaine nodded. He knew what Jeff was getting at. "Right after we started, I was jonesing for some coke. He'd made me promise I wouldn't, and I called him wicked late at night. He drove two hours to get here, and he stayed with me until the morning." Blaine's heart fluttered at little at the memory. "He got in a lot of trouble, because of that."

"I think you have your answer, babe. That guy, he's not going anywhere. Even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, you're not going to lose him as your Top. You told me you were his, right?"

Blaine shivered, the way he did whenever he thought about belonging to Finn. "Yeah."

"So. If he _does_ love you, that can only enhance what you already share, don't you think?"

"I suppose so," Blaine sighed, but he really wasn't sure.

"I can't take care of you, the way Finn does. I can't make you set your fears down, Blaine. But you're lucky that you _do_ have someone who can. You need to talk to Finn." Jeff's tone and expression were stern. "You _need_ to at least let him help you, even if you don't tell him everything."

Blaine nodded, but his fear gathered up, settled over him like a blanket.

There was _no way_ he could let Finn help him, not right now.

Now he needed to hide.

He put on his Happy Blaine face, hoped that it fooled Jeff, and made excuses about his Geometry homework. Backed out of Jeff's room, and moved back up the silent hall to his own. He walked past his books, open on his desk, slid into his bed, and just stayed there.

He didn't sleep that night.

He didn't sleep the next night either.

He felt like he was going to fly apart, and he couldn't control anything.

He needed Finn. He needed what Finn could give him, and he was too scared to ask for it, so he just kept hiding.

* * *

Finn tried not to worry when he didn't get a text back from Blaine, but he drove out to Westerville anyway, texting him every fifteen minutes or so. He knew Blaine would feel guilty for not responding, even if he had a good reason for not doing it, but his instinct to protect him was too strong to override. He didn't have a good reason for it, and if he were to be logical about it, Blaine was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but that didn't matter.

But when he got to Blaine's floor and knocked on his door, there was no answer. His white board, where Blaine would normally leave a message for visitors, was blank. There wasn't anything to indicate where he was. Finn tried not to panic. He had to sit down on the floor for a good two minutes before he could be rational again.

He took a casual walk down the hallway, smiling at boys who'd been at the last floor party, but he didn't stop walking until he passed a room where there was a boy he knew by name. "Jeff?"

Jeff absently looked up from his studying, but his face cleared when he saw Finn. "Hey," he said.

"I'm here to see Blaine, but he's not around," Finn said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Do you know where he is?"

Jeff nodded slowly, thinking. "He said something at dinner about picking up his boxing gloves from the locker room. Maybe he has a late coaching session?"

Finn sighed. "I'm just... okay. Fine. I'll wait."

"You'll freak out if you wait like that," Jeff said, pushing his chair back. "C'mon. I'll buy you a coffee."

Coffee wasn't exactly what Finn thought would help him just then, but he was willing to get his customary hot chocolate. When Jeff pulled out a small bottle of Bailey's liquour, he shook his head, but then he kind of wished he hadn't. He was wound too tight, with too much riding on every minute that Blaine wasn't there, next to him, close enough to touch, for him to wrap him in his arms. It wasn't sexual - it wasn't. It was just that he _needed _him.

They left a note on Blaine's white board explaining where they were, just in case Blaine got back. Jeff's eyes on him, and his casual conversation, were polite, but by the time they got to the coffee shop, he was clearly frustrated with Finn.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Finn said. "I know there's no reason to freak. He's just late."

But, to his surprise, Jeff shook his head, his white-blonde hair falling in his eyes. "I know exactly how you're feeling, man," he said. "Blaine came to my room on Wednesday night and he was about as wound up as I've ever seen him. And it was all about this. About you, about... this. What you're doing together."

His eyes were meaningful, and Finn looked away for just a moment before he sighed and nodded. "You, uh. Blaine said you kind of knew about that?"

Jeff turned in toward Finn, holding their conversation in the cup of their bodies, a little zone of privacy away from the other patrons. "Yeah, kind of. You're Topping him?"

Finn nodded, trying not to be uncomfortable talking about this in public. "Since early spring. He really seemed like he needed it, and we kind of fell into this... thing. It's not a relationship."

"Oh, it totally is," Jeff said, grinning. "Seriously, Finn, no matter who's screwing whom, you're definitely _relating_ with Blaine. And he's absolutely _relating_ with you."

Finn sat with that statement for a few minutes while he ordered his hot chocolate. "It's complicated," Finn said. "I'm seeing other people. A few others. Blaine's not... well, he doesn't want..." He heaved a frustrated sigh.

Jeff's eye-roll was epic. "Excuse my Cyrillic, but Blaine has no fucking idea what he wants. He's hanging on to this idea that he has to be perfect for everybody, including his dad, and his Top, and all of his teachers, and... you get the idea."

"Yeah," Finn said unhappily. "I know. I hate it when he's hard on himself like that, and I can't help him because I'm not _here._" He rested his head in his hands, gripping his head like it might fly off his shoulders.

"Well..." Jeff cleared his throat. "I'm not digging on Blaine as anything but a friend, you understand, but... this is something I might be able to help you with. If you want."

Finn picked up his head slowly and stared at Jeff. "I'm listening."

"Please forgive me if this is too much," Jeff said, setting a hand on Finn's arm, "but if you're needing to give Blaine what I'm pretty sure you're giving him, and you don't object to an extra pair of hands helping you out, I can dole out a spanking with the best of 'em."

Finn's first reaction was white-hot rage. _No. Nobody touches him but me. __**Nobody.**_He sat with that feeling, breathing into it, trying not to make it about Jeff or about anything except what it was. What Jeff was saying made sense. Because it was true. Finn couldn't always be there, and here Jeff was, right on Blaine's floor, offering a seeming no-strings solution to Blaine's neediness. How could he say anything but yes to that?

"Okay," he said, trying not to get more worked up than he already was, and blew out a breath. "Okay. Yeah, that would be... helpful. Blaine could use that sometimes, I guess."

"He sure as hell could," Jeff declared. "Now you're going to have to tell me your secrets for being able to take care of it in the dorm without anyone hearing."

The conversation was fruitful, and all the residual uncomfortable feelings he'd had about Jeff providing Blaine with cocaine were absolved by the end of it. But he still hadn't heard from Blaine, and it was starting to get dark. They walked back toward the dorm. Jeff paused at an intersection and pointed.

"If you go down this road and take the next left, on the corner is the IM building," he said. "You're supposed to need an ID to get in, but the side door to the gym is always propped open. You should be able to find him in there."

"Thanks," Finn said gratefully. On an impulse, he hugged Jeff, and when he let him go, Jeff was grinning broadly.

"Yeah, I can totally see what he sees in you," he said, and gave Finn a wave as he headed back toward their dorm.

Finn hurried down the road to the IM building. Sure enough, the side door was propped, and he just ducked inside. There weren't many kids in there at this time of night, on a school night. He came across two guys shooting baskets, and a small class doing pilates. But tonight, the room where he found Blaine contained nothing but him and the punching bag and a lot of grunting.

Finn pulled on the door behind him and, not finding a lock, just shoved it shut. "Blaine," he said, and saw Blaine flinch, but he didn't stop hitting the punching bag, leaning in like he had something to prove.

Finn took a deep breath and reached inside him for the sensation of control, the tone that demanded obedience. "_Blaine Darren Anderson."_

Blaine froze, shrinking in on himself, his gloves folding in as if in prayer. He began to shake, and Finn barely caught him before he collapsed to the mat.

"Blaine. Look at me." Finn arrested his gaze, wide and desperate and hurting. "I'm right here, Blaine. Come on, focus." He cast around him, found a bottle of water within reach, and snagged it to hand to Blaine. He ended up having to hold it for him, because Blaine wasn't able to stop shaking long enough for Finn to unlace his gloves, but he got a good amount of water into him, and only a little bit down his front, before it was gone. Blaine was sweating anyway, and he'd clearly been doing that for a while, because his skin was cold and clammy. Finn wrapped him up close in his arms and just held him for a few minutes, but the shaking didn't cease.

"When's the last time you ate something?" he said, his voice low. Blaine twitched a little in his embrace.

"Breakfast," Blaine said.

Finn felt an unreasonable explosion of anger in his chest. It wasn't anger at Blaine. It was anger that Blaine could have gone all day without eating, could have pushed himself past the breaking point in the gym, and no one had been there to take care of him. _Wrong,_ his gut said. _Not okay. _

"Not okay," he echoed his gut. "You need to eat, b-Blaine."

"I know," Blaine said, burying his face into Finn's chest, "I know, I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I ran away, and I didn't answer your texts, and I came here and I got someone to lace up my gloves, and I starting hitting and I couldn't _stop..."_ The word shattered on Finn's skin like a bird's egg. Finn pulled him in tighter, wrapping him in all of his limbs, giving him as much pressure and security as he'd give Kurt - and knowing in his heart he was going to have to spank him as hard as he'd ever done for Puck.

"You're going to come back with me to your room," he said. "Now."

Blaine stumbled to his feet and managed to follow Finn out the door, which was a good thing, because Finn would have just picked him up and carried him if he'd had to. That would have been hard to explain to the other boys on Blaine's floor. As it was, he got plenty of odd looks and questions about why Blaine had walked all the way back to his room wearing boxing gloves, but Finn muttered something about an injury and they left him alone.

His door safely closed and locked, Blaine sank to the edge of his bed, holding out his wrists for Finn to unlace. Finn allowed his anger and fear to surface. "I can't believe you didn't tell anybody where you were going," he snapped. "What if something had happened to you?"

"I was fine, Finn," Blaine said, sounding exhausted, but the overtone of a retort was clear in his voice.

"Not _fine._ Not even close. You're not to leave the dorm again without telling someone where you're going. Got it?"

"Whatever," he muttered. "Can I just go to bed? I'm falling asleep on my feet here."

"No. First you're going to eat something. Do you have anything here, or do I need to order out?"

Blaine was able to produce a granola bar and a slightly mushy banana from breakfast. Finn peeled the banana and held it out to him with one eyebrow raised until he took it and ate it. He unwrapped the granola bar and brandished it in much the same way.

"What, are you going to feed it to me?" he snapped.

"You bet your ass I am, unless you eat it yourself," Finn said. Blaine sighed, took the granola bar and ate it, piece by piece, with a grimace of distaste. When he was done, he regarded Finn warily.

"Now what?" he whispered.

"You know what, Blaine. Take off your shorts. And then you're going to bed, right away."

Blaine complied, though not with the usual speed and obedience that Finn expected from him. When he reached out to give Blaine a warning swat, Blaine shied away from his hand. Finn's eyebrows went up, and didn't come down again until Blaine blurted out, "I'm sorry."

"You're not acting like it," Finn said. "Come here, right on my lap. I'm not playing here, Blaine. You screwed up big time tonight."

"I know," he moaned. "Believe me, I _know._ Just... it's already been a hell of a night, Finn."

Finn heard his own voice drop to dangerous levels. "Oh, you have _no idea._" Blaine sucked in a shocked breath, and Finn's hand traced circles on his back. He gave him a pat. "You might want to put on the music for this one."

Blaine stumbled to the stereo and slid in whatever CD was handy, which turned out to be 30 Seconds to Mars. His return to Finn was agonized and took three times as long, but he finally made it across the room and stood before him. Finn took his arm and pulled him down without a word onto his lap.

"You can't treat yourself this way, Blaine," Finn said into his ear, and felt him shudder. "It's not okay. If I'm not going to be here to take care of you every day, you're going to need to hold up your end of the bargain. Namely, eating. Sleeping. Telling people where you'll be. And, for Christ's sake, _stopping _when you're exhausted." He turned Blaine over and let him dangle on his knee. "You need to be taught a lesson, Blaine. Are you hearing me?"

"I hear you," Blaine whispered.

He put the flat of his hand on Blaine's backside. "And you're going to remember this."

The music gave him plenty of cover, and he didn't hold back, covering the pale surface of Blaine's behind with hard, unforgiving smacks. He'd never felt like he wished he had a tool before, not with Blaine, but tonight he thought he might have appreciated the leather paddle Adam had sent for Kurt to use on Puck. Thinking of the paddle and Puck, while he was spanking Blaine, took him down roads he was determined not to go, and he had to work extra hard to get himself to focus. _Blaine doesn't need that from you,_ he told himself firmly. _That's not why you're here. This - you can give him this. Don't try to make it something it's not. Just focus._

Blaine flinched and whined, and, once, gave a loud moan that sounded way more sexual than pained, but Finn didn't let up. "Tell me you'll be good," he demanded.

"I will, Finn," Blaine pleaded, "I won't do this again - honest. I promise. Please..."

He was glad he hadn't asked Blaine to count, because the number of swats he was delivering was starting to seem a little ridiculous. Still, Blaine hadn't broken down, and Finn wasn't giving up on him. "You can bet you won't. Because Jeff's going to be watching out for you. If you screw up again, boy, he can spank you just as hard as I do."

Blaine struggled in his arms, turning wildly to look at Finn. "_What?_ No - you can't do that!"

"I can't?" He shifted his aim to the skin under each cheek, where Finn knew it was most sensitive, and Blaine cried out. "Quiet now. I'm almost done. But Blaine, you either trust me to take care of you the best way I know how, or you don't. Either way, tell me now. Do you want this?"

"I - yes! Finn... I want it. God... but I don't..." His pleading dissolved into tears. "You told me nobody but you... I don't want it from anyone but you."

"I know," Finn said through gritted teeth, and dug in with his hardest swats. "I don't either. But I just can't be here all the time. This is the best solution, unless you're planning to move back to Lima anytime soon."

He kept pushing until Blaine was outright sobbing on the bed beside him, and then he just lay down with him, knowing Blaine's ass would be too sore to support his weight. Finn just took him in his arms and held him to his chest and made gentle noises against his hair and kept his mind _very, very _focused on what he was doing.

"Sleep now," he said softly, and Blaine closed his eyes.

It was maybe a half hour or a little longer before Blaine stirred again. Finn knew he probably should have gotten up and let Blaine sleep without him, but somehow he couldn't let him go. "What time is it?" he mumbled.

"Nearly ten. You have morning classes." Finn hesitated, but he knew he had to say something. "Blaine... after the concert. I wanted to tell you..."

"No, Finn - that was my fault. You don't have to say anything else."

Finn pressed on. "I just wanted you to know that it won't happen again. You made it very clear what was and was not okay with you, and I need you to know, I won't cross that line with you again. You deserve to trust me."

"I do trust you," he said, and yawned.

Finn unwrapped him, making him change out of his sweaty t-shirt, then helped him crawl under the covers, bare-bottomed against the sheets. He didn't have the heart to make him put on boxers. "You'll be at Irene's this weekend?"

"It's my last week of school," Blaine said needlessly. "I'll be there. You?"

"Yeah, but we're going out of town the weekend after that, when school gets out. Family reunion. I wanted you to know. You're going to stay with your dad?"

"I'll be in Lima for part of break, but yeah, mostly in Columbus. I'm looking at doing some summer theater instead of Six Flags this summer..." He rolled to face the wall, and Finn took the hint. He was nearly to the door before Blaine stopped him again with soft words.

"I'm sorry, Finn. I... I won't let it happen again."

"No, Blaine," he replied, his hand on the door. "_I_ won't let it happen again. I'm here to take care of it. You just have to let me."

"Yes, please," Blaine said. He quickly turned back to face him, and reached out his hand. "Please," he repeated, close to tears again. "Stay until I'm asleep."

"Of course." Finn crossed to him, unaccountably relieved, and knelt beside the bed. He took Blaine's hand, and interlaced their fingers, letting Blaine pull his hand over his heart. He held it there long after Blaine was sleeping again.

* * *

_I like the way you play your songs  
__I like the way you sing  
__You look so good in colored lights  
__And the brilliant spotlight ring_

_And up there your eyes are fiery  
__And hotter by degree  
__But weary and so confused  
__When no one else can see_

_So you need to feed the fire  
__When you feel it start to go  
__To feel the heat of all those lights  
__Long after the show_

_And you need it so much now  
__You don't even know  
__All the world's a stage to you  
__Then where else can you go_

_You could come away with me tonight  
__I can make it all right  
__You don't need a spotlight  
__You just need a home_

_I want to drive away with you  
__Far from New York streets  
__And head on a highway  
__Where the sky and road still meet_

_And the sky out there is bright  
__And the moon's about to rise  
__It's all there waiting  
__If you look into my eyes_

_Cause here in the city  
__There isn't much to see  
__Here in this apartment  
__You can hardly breathe_

_And the only lights you see tonight  
__Are on the ceiling moving slow  
__Flashing signs and headlights  
__In an eerie neon glow_

_You could come away with me tonight  
__I can make it all right  
__You don't need a spotlight  
__You just need a home_

_- "You Just Need A Home," Lucy Kaplansky_


	11. Chapter 11

_(Author's note: This story has included D/s elements throughout, but this particular chapter is very intense, so you may want to make sure you have something or someone to hug. Also, this is the last chapter, and it does not exactly end happily, but there is more story to come, so I just want to reassure you things will get better for Finn and Blaine. And worse, but that's another story. -amy)_

* * *

**Chapter 11**

Finn opened the door to Java the Hut with a jingle of the bell that hung there, and he paused to let the air conditioning cool his skin. The surprise heatwave made him glad that school was out; sitting in hot classrooms trying to take exams had been hard, and the distraction of Puck still being gone and Carl falling into . . . _something_ . . . with Ms. P. He shook his head. He _really_ didn't get that, but considering how many people he himself was juggling, he didn't have anything he could complain about.

Seeing Blaine there, waiting for him, should have calmed him down, but all it did was make him feel more anxious. He put a hand on Blaine's shoulder, in answer to his smile, and squeezed.

"There's something we need to talk about," he said quietly.

"Hello to you, too," said Blaine, quirking an eyebrow at him. "What's up?"

Finn pulled out the chair across from Blaine and sat down, leaning in close enough that their knees touched under the table. He dropped his voice even lower. "It's about what happened on Wednesday."

"I promised you it won't happen again, and it _won't_." Blaine's voice was defensive.

"I know," Finn said, resting his hand on top of Blaine's. "You're a good boy. But I think- you need something more than what I'm already giving you."

Blaine's eyes flicked around the half-empty coffeehouse. "Do you want something to drink?"

"You can't avoid having this conversation with me," Finn said with a wry smile.

"I'm not avoiding," Blaine replied. At Finn's raised eyebrow, he persisted. "I'm really _not. _I just think I need coffee, if we're really going to talk about this."

"Lime Italian soda, please." Blaine twisted his face and shook his head. "What? My mom's made them for me since I was a kid."

"I don't like lime," Blaine said with a grimace. "Too tart."

"More for me, then," Finn said with a shrug.

He drummed his fingers on the table while Blaine was busy at the counter, and he caught Irene giving him an odd look as she slid both drinks over to Blaine. Blaine set the Italian soda in front of Finn, and poked his straw into his iced mocha, taking a long sip.

"I think you need to come with me to Carl's office," said Finn. He watched Blaine's eyes grow large over his cup, then set his drink down, swallowing.

"Are you sure? I thought we were doing okay, just you and me."

Finn sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Yeah. Me too, but... Wednesday, it was like, you were somewhere I didn't even know you could _go_, and it was all I could do to drag you back." He thought for a moment. "Remember how I was telling you about how what Carl does is different from what we do? How you... lose yourself, kind of, and be whatever he tells you to be?"

Blaine sighed and closed his eyes. Finn watched something clouded cross Blaine's features, he didn't know if it was relief or pain or . . . _wanting_? "Yeah," Blaine said, eyes still closed. "I remember."

"Well, I think you might... need that." Finn watched him anxiously. "There's nothing wrong with that, Blaine. I just don't think I can do it. Like, I don't know how."

"And you think he can help? You think . . . he could teach us _both_ how to do that?" He sounded almost _hopeful_, and Finn just wanted to wrap him up and hold him for hours, because he really was such a good boy, so willing and trusting.

"Maybe." He smiled, feeling encouraged by Blaine's faith in him. "Yeah, maybe he can? He's a good teacher. I've learned a lot from him."

There was a snort from the vicinity of the counter, but Finn wasn't sure if that was about him or not, so he ignored it.

"Where is he, anyway? I thought you guys had been working on something new." Blaine nudged his guitar case with his foot. "You can sing with me, if you want."

"I'd love that." The tension between them was gone, now. "Carl has a - well, I guess it's a date. He's been seeing this client, and I think it's turning into something more." His voice dropped. "It's a _girl._ Uh, a woman. That's a little weird."

"I bet," Blaine said with a little wrinkle of his nose. "No offense to Rachel or anything, but girls are just gross."

Finn had to laugh at that, and he was pretty sure that, behind the espresso machine, Irene was laughing, too. "My boyfriend thinks the same thing about girls," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But - there was this one time... his dad's kind of a regular guy, and I think he thought maybe he thought his dad wanted him to be, like, a regular guy too?" He grinned. "He tried wearing flannel shirts and singing Mellencamp, and dating this friend of his, and... it was just..." Finn shuddered. "_Really_ wrong."

"I kissed a girl, once, but only because she _made_ me." Blaine made another face, and there was something dark in his eyes, like the memory surrounding the kiss was a bad one. He didn't want to ask in public, but to his surprise Blaine kept talking. "My parents were fighting a lot, in middle school, and my best friend came over one night when I was freaking out, and she kissed me."

"Huh." Finn tilted his head. "Why do you think she did that?"

"Because I get all tangled up in my head sometimes, and she always knows how to help me when I'm like that. And, she's kind of pushy and she _really_ likes sex, and she sometimes does things without thinking them all the way through."

Finn hesitated before saying, "There were these girls at my school, back in January... they decided I needed... uh, to lose my virginity?" He shook his head at Blaine's expression. "I mean, with girls."

Blaine gave him a grimace. "Really? How did... um. Did you..."

Finn waited as Blaine trailed off, letting him flounder for a few seconds before rescuing him. "I did, but it was totally awful. I think she felt bad that they couldn't... you know. Get me off. Like it was some kind of failure on her part that I'm not interested in her that way?"

"Then why are you with Rachel, if girls don't . . . _do it_ for you?" Blaine toyed with the wrapper from his straw where it was curled on the table.

Finn took a long sip of his lime soda before replying. "I used to date girls, before I realized what was going on with me, and I liked them just fine... but Rachel, we've always had something different. I'm not even sure how to explain _why,_ but... when we sing together, there's something there. I kind of love her, you know?" He shook his head. "You're the first person I've said that to, besides her. Is that totally weird?"

Blaine shrugged. "I think I'm the last person you should ask about anything being weird. If you love her, that's great. If your boyfriends don't mind, why should anybody else care _what_ it is that gives you those feelings?"

"They're not crazy about it, but they want me to be happy. And Rachel, she wasn't crazy about the idea of me being with _them,_ either, but... I think she's okay with it now." He smiled. "She's kind of odd. Most people at my school don't really like her. I think sometimes I'm the only one who sees what's amazing about her. And everybody deserves that, right?"

Blaine smiled warmly at Finn. "Yes," he said in a whisper. "You're really good at that, seeing underneath and into people. And... if you think that we need Carl to help us - to help _me_... then I think we should go."

Finn couldn't help himself. He leaned over and took Blaine into his arms and hugged him tight. "That's my good boy," he whispered. "I promise, I'll take care of you."

* * *

Carl's office usually provided an oasis of calm Finn's busy life, but tonight his stomach was jumpy and he couldn't relax. Angela averted her eyes as Finn entered, and she smiled a little as he opened the door for Blaine.

"Good evening, sir," she said. "May I tell Dr. Howell you're here?"

"Sure," he said. His hand on Blaine's back guided him forward to stand before the desk. "This is... Blaine."

"Hey," Blaine said softly. Angela's smile stayed gentle and bland.

"Blaine," she repeated. "I have some paperwork for you to complete, if you wouldn't mind." She returned her attention to Finn, bowing her head just slightly. "Will you be signing for him, sir?"

_Yes, I'll be giving Carl permission to beat the crap out of him,_ he thought, and swallowed his hysterical laugh. "I'm responsible for him," he said instead. He felt Blaine relax a little at the words, and he looked up at Finn in obvious relief.

"Take a look at the pictures on the wall while I read this over," Finn suggested, and gave Blaine's shoulder a squeeze. "They're... interesting."

It took Blaine about six images and less than two minutes before Finn heard the gasp. He grinned to himself. _ He's quick - my boy's smart._ It was a remarkably heady feeling.

"They're, uh..." Blaine turned his head in to face Finn, blushing. "They're close-ups of _things._ That you'd _hit... _somebody with."

"No," said Finn. "Not somebody."

His hand on Blaine's back drifted down to brush the curving line above his ass, and Blaine made a strangled noise. They were standing like that when Carl came out of the office. He felt his hand tighten on Blaine's hip, pulling him closer. Possessive. _Mine,_ he could practically hear himself say, just with that gesture, and he gazed across the room at Carl.

Carl paused, barely perceptibly, but Finn caught it. He was in scrubs today, and as always, it was impossible to tell whether they were props or the real thing. Carl made eye contact with Finn, and waited for him to look down before turning his attention on Blaine.

"Finn," he said. "Won't you introduce me to your boy?"

Finn knew it was a concession to protocol that he was acknowledging Blaine at all, but Finn had asked him to treat Blaine like an ordinary client, not like one of his subs. _Even though he totally is one,_ Finn's inner voice nudged at him. _I mean, look at him._

Blaine was frozen in place, his eyes on Carl's sternum. His breath was coming a little quickly, and when Finn's hand moved to hold Blaine's fingers, they were cold.

"Sir," Finn said, and he heard Blaine's breath catch at the word, his eyes flickering up to Finn's briefly. Finn smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "This is Blaine. He... uh, hasn't completed his paperwork yet."

"Not a problem," Carl said smoothly. "Why don't you take him into my office and sit there while you write? Angela can bring you anything you need. I'm going to get changed."

Finn nodded, and had to pull Blaine's hand a little before he would move, but after that Blaine followed docilely enough down the hall and through the second door on the left. He blinked a little at the fire crackling away in the stone fireplace, the muted decor, the couch and table with blatantly obvious O-rings fixed in the corners.

Finn set his bag down and guided Blaine to the couch, where he handed him the clipboard and a pen. "I signed all the parts that have to do with you needing permission. You should read them over and make sure there's nothing you're uncomfortable with, okay? And... you need to come up with a safe word."

Blaine nearly dropped the clipboard, but he managed to keep control of the pen, and his voice was only a little bit terrified. "A - okay."

"Does it ask for two? Sometimes you need one to slow down and one to stop... but I think Carl just wanted the one. So this would be a word that means _I'm done now, and you should really go."_

Blaine looked positively alarmed at this idea. "I don't think I'd ever want you to do that," he said.

"Well, then." Finn regarded him impassively. "You shouldn't ever say it to me."

Blaine nodded silently before returning to the form. Once Blaine was sufficiently distracted, Finn opened Carl's third drawer and took out the paper bag he'd stored there. It had been over a month ago that Carl had convinced him to buy it. He'd been so afraid to do anything with it that it had sat in Kurt's glove compartment for a week and a half before he'd brought it to Carl and asked his advice. _Keep it here,_ he'd said. _You'll want it eventually. There's no rush._

It was now or never, he knew, but that didn't make it any easier. Finn went to stand beside the fireplace, feeling the heat of the blaze on his back, and he took a deep breath. "Blaine."

Blaine looked up immediately, setting the pen on the table. Finn held out his hand. "Come here."

Blaine stood and walked to him, taking his hand. His expression was one of absolute trust, and Finn was rocked by the emotion that washed over him. He had to close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Blaine was waiting in silence, looking anxious.

"You're such a good boy," he murmured, and touched his hair. Blaine's anxiety was erased, and he flushed, leaning into Finn's touch.

"I wasn't sure if it was really okay for me to... to be here," Blaine admitted. "You don't mind?"

"No," Finn said. "But you need something, before we do anything else. Something that's going to help you stay connected to me, through... whatever it is Carl wants you to do. Something you can hang on to, when you're scared, to know I'm always there with you."

Blaine looked so confused that Finn nearly smiled, but he wanted to keep the occasion a solemn one, just as his own had been. "Okay," he said at last. "Whatever you think I need, I'm okay with that."

Finn nodded. "Carl's going to... he'll want you to know how to stand, when he gives you certain commands. We should practice them now. Are you done with your form?"

"Almost," Blaine said, and Finn nodded again. Blaine picked up the clipboard and showed Finn where he'd signed. Finn flipped through, re-reading the clauses about indemnification against physical damage with entirely new eyes. He had another rush of fierce protectiveness, and he took Blaine in his arms, clutching him close.

"You're mine," he said, and Blaine sighed, resting his head on Finn's chest.

"Yours," he agreed.

Finn took the clipboard and set it on Carl's desk. "He'll ask you to rest," he said. "That means you put your hands behind you, like this... and your feet apart. You can look at the floor, but better to look at the wall across from you." Finn coaxed Blaine's shoulders up, his chest down, his back straight. "That's good."

Blaine smiled a little at the praise. "Okay. I feel like I'm in the military or something."

"Yeah, Carl was a lieutenant," Finn agreed. "That's where he met his Top. You'll meet her someday, I'm sure."

"_Her?" _Blaine blurted, and stared at Finn, but Finn put a restraining hand on his arm.

"Just keep that position until I tell you. He's... very particular." Finn circled him slowly, adjusting, and watched Blaine slip into a kind of light trance. _So simple,_ he marveled. "Okay. The next one is on your knees."

He helped Blaine drop to the floor, his feet tucked under him, perched on his toes, knees together. He took his wrists and held them in his lap, touching the pads of his hands together. When he let go, Blaine didn't separate his hands, as though they were held together by invisible magnets. Finn nodded approval.

"When he asks you to kneel, do it like this. Are you all right?"

"Yes," Blaine said, and he did seem to be. His breathing was even, his shoulders relaxed, and as Finn went to stand in front of him, he tipped his chin up, blinking up at him. "Am I doing well?"

"Oh, yeah," Finn breathed. "You're doing so well."

He picked up the paper bag and opened it, drawing the collar out, and held it in his hands for Blaine to see. Blaine went as still as a statue, and Finn watched the pupils of his eyes grow huge and luminous.

"Oh," he whispered.

"I want you to wear this, Blaine," said Finn. He had to pause a moment before he could go on. "You're mine, but in this office, Carl makes the rules. He will ask you to do things - _never _force you - that you haven't done with anyone except me. And I want you to know it's okay. But at the same time, I _need_ you to know that you still belong to me."

Blaine reached out a finger and hesitated before touching the ring on the front, the carefully tooled brown leather. "It's... " He looked up at Finn again, and there were tears in his eyes. "It's beautiful."

Finn let out the breath he'd been holding. "I'm going to put it on you now," he said. "But I should take your shirt off, first. Are you cold?"

Blaine gave a quick shake of his head. Finn unbuttoned his shirt, and as he slipped it off his shoulders, he could feel him trembling.

"Don't be afraid," Finn said, but Blaine shook his head.

"I'm not," he insisted. "I'm... I think I'm..." He gave a little laugh, and smiled, wide and amazed. "Happy?"

"All right," Finn said, smiling back, and buckled the collar around his neck. He held out his hand, and Blaine took it before standing, wincing a little.

"P - my boyfriend tells me his calves cramp up if he's in that position for too long," Finn said. "He might be able to give me some suggestions to help you deal with that."

"Does... does he know Carl, too?" he asked, and when Finn nodded, he looked a little overwhelmed by the idea.

"He's been to his office a couple times," Finn added. "But he doesn't visit regularly. His Top is in California. He wears his collar, there. And - well." He figured Blaine didn't need details about Kurt and Puck's relationship with Adam.

"But he doesn't wear your collar," Blaine said.

Finn shook his head. "We haven't done anything like that. Maybe... someday. I don't know."

He didn't want Blaine's attention to wander too far, so he reached into the bag again and pulled out a chain lead. Blaine's eyes widened as Finn snapped the hook onto the ring on his collar.

"You should follow a step behind him, to the right," Finn instructed, positioning Blaine and then standing where Carl would be. He tugged the lead, feeling Blaine lean in when Finn pulled, but then step right back into his original spot. Finn smiled. "That's a good boy."

The door opened, and Carl stepped inside, taking in the scene with one cool glance. "Finn," he said, holding out his hand, and Finn immediately transferred the lead to him. He watched Blaine to make sure he didn't panic, but Blaine just watched him do it with calm trust.

"Sir,' Finn said. Carl nodded to the couch, and Finn sat, watching his Top holding the chain attached to his boy's collar. It could easily have been a singularly disconcerting experience, but he wasn't worried any more than Blaine was. _Carl's got this,_ he thought, and his shoulders dropped as he leaned back.

"You're going to be fine," he said, running a hand over Blaine's bare back. He knew Blaine's shiver had nothing to do with being chilly, and he knew Carl would know it, too. _For all the things I see in Blaine, the things he needs, Carl probably sees a dozen more. He knows him nearly as well as I do._

Carl drew Blaine forward to stand in the center of the room. "Rest," he said, putting a hand on Blaine's chin. Blaine moved his body as best as he could to stand in the modified parade rest, and Carl had nothing more to say about it than, "Good." He didn't respond to Blaine's smile, or acknowledge him tracking Carl as he walked from one side to the other.

When he stopped, he put a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "Kneel."

Blaine dropped immediately into a crouch, tucking his feet under him, and rested back on his heels, his wrists together on his thighs. His gaze went to the wall across from him. Finn wanted to tell him how well he was doing, how proud he was of him, but he wasn't going to confuse the boy. One voice was what he needed right now, and that voice was going to be Carl's.

Carl got down on his own knees, just barely taller than Blaine, which surprised Finn, because he always thought of Carl as being _bigger_ than he was. He faced Blaine, who averted his eyes, but Carl's hand was there again, under his chin, guiding him back to look at him. Finn thought Blaine looked a little disconcerted by that.

"Here in this office, you're to take direction from me," Carl said, and Blaine nodded. Finn was pleased Blaine hadn't looked to him at all, but kept his focus on Carl. Carl raised an eyebrow. "You should respond aloud, boy."

"Y-yes, sir," Blaine whispered.

"That's a good boy." He reached out and disconnected the lead from Blaine's collar. "It's not necessary for me to have the chain on you for you to follow."

"No, sir," Blaine said. Carl smiled, and Finn saw Blaine take a moment to absorb the force of that expression. _His smile is almost as dangerous as his hand._

"I can tell you want to obey." Carl considered him critically. "But I can also tell you want even more to let go."

Blaine's gaze slipped to the floor, and Carl snapped, "Eyes up." He locked eyes with Blaine. "Finn's been spanking you."

Blaine's cheeks went red, but he didn't stammer. "Yes, sir."

"And he's shown you the tools we use? Paddle, tawse, cane, those sorts of things?"

Blaine nodded, then remembered and said, "Yes, sir."

Carl walked to Finn and leaned in, next to his ear. Finn tried not to be distracted by the feeling of his breath on his cheek.

"Look in the top drawer and find the red-handled flogger," Carl murmured. Then he kissed Finn, gently. "You doing all right?"

"Yes, sir," Finn said. "I'm - this is fine." And, surprisingly, it was. Blaine, with his collar on, was unequivocally Finn's. Anything he did in this office, with Carl, was for him - Blaine's offering to Finn, to please him, to inspire him.

"He's doing all right," Carl said, keeping his voice low, "but he's a little dehydrated, and I'm thinking his blood sugar is low. We'll have to keep this short."

"May I give him some water, sir?" he asked, and Carl smiled at him.

"Of course, my boy. You go right ahead. Then find that tool for me, all right?"

Blaine drank the water gratefully, and he took a long, deep breath when Finn leaned against him, letting Blaine feel the warmth of his body, the shelter of his arm.

"You're doing so well," he said, knowing Blaine needed to hear it as much as he did himself. Blaine smiled at him, and Finn couldn't help it, he reached out and wrapped his hand around Blaine's neck, holding the collar tight in his grasp. Blaine stopped breathing for a moment, and when he started again, his next breath was a moan. "Just let him take care of you."

"Yes, sir," Blaine said, then stared at Finn, aghast. Finn stared back for the space of three heartbeats. Then Carl chuckled.

"No worries, boy," he said. "I'm clear who's in charge here, and I know you are, too. Finn, get that tool for me now."

Finn opened the top drawer to Carl's desk. It wasn't the first time he'd looked in there, but it was the first time Carl had let him rummage around in there unsupervised. He knew these were Carl's personal tools, and for him to use one on Blaine was... special, somehow. Finn touched several of the tools - all familiar to him, by now - with fondness before grasping the red-handled flogger and closing the drawer again.

He watched Blaine's eyes on Carl grow round as Finn handed him the flogger, but his posture didn't slip, and he didn't hesitate when Carl gave the order, "Up, boy."

Carl stood back while Blaine got to his feet, only staggering a little, and Finn had to resist reaching to help him up. His cheeks were flushed already, and he caught his breath when Carl said, "Pants, and shorts, down. Hands up against the wall, there. Move."

Blaine tugged down his pants, then stumbled over to the fireplace and placed his palms against the stone. Finn was arrested by the image, remembering his own first position against the wall in this very office. He could hear himself saying the words _How do you want me?_ and Carl using the suede flogger on his bare back. But this tool wasn't suede, and Blaine's response wouldn't likely be sighs of pleasure. Finn's cock twitched, but he kept his hand carefully away from his leg.

Carl took his stance to Blaine's right, holding the red-handled flogger in his left hand. He used his right hand to touch Blaine's shoulder, moving it down his back, murmuring, "Relax." Finn could see Blaine's body give in to that command, caving a little in the middle, canting his hips up. Carl's hand made a long, slow slide down Blaine's spine, pausing on each vertebra, assessing with an expert hand exactly where Blaine held his tension. Finn knew just what he was doing, and he could almost feel it, as if his were the hand touching him.

Carl leaned in, speaking quietly into Blaine's ear, but his eyes were on Finn. "Do you know what you need?"

Blaine's response was slow to come. He turned his head to one side, and Finn could see him trembling. "I... I don't know. Sir."

"That's all right. I'll tell you, boy." He made his words low and gentle, almost hypnotic. "You need to feel someone taking control. Not just right now, but always, every moment. Someone to lift the burden of responsibility... to handle you, to tell you what to do. To take everything you can give, and hold you up when you can't stand any longer. To push you, push you further than you ever dreamed. Isn't that right, boy?"

Blaine's answer was a low moan, and Finn clenched his hands on the sofa cushion to keep from leaping to his feet. _Blaine needed... but no._ Carl would take care of him. He tried his best to relax.

Carl draped the tails of the flogger on Blaine's back. He jumped a little at their touch, but they were just feather-light, dragging on his skin, first up toward his neck, and then back down again, following the curve of his spine, back up onto his ass, and into the cleft between his thighs.

"This isn't a tool you've felt before," Carl said, still quiet, still kind. "It's not particularly forgiving. But there's no sense in using it at all if I'm not going to use it the right way. Are you ready?"

Blaine's head bowed slightly, and he leaned in to the wall, his hands pressing, the muscles in his back tensing. Carl quickly transferred the flogger to his right hand and planted one swift smack in the center of Blaine's behind with his hand. Blaine jumped again, and moaned, louder this time. "What was that?" Carl snapped.

"Yes, sir," he said, loud enough for Finn to hear him. Finn felt dizzy, even faint with pride and admiration for Blaine, for the way he let Carl's words affect him. _Is he doing this for me?_ he had to wonder. _Is this all just for me? _The idea was almost too much to bear.

"All right." Carl took the handle back in his left hand, curling his fingers around the thick red leather handle. The black tails looked so good against Blaine's golden skin. "Tell me your safe word, boy."

"Ch-Charlotte," Blaine said.

"If you say that word again, I will stop. We won't go any further, and Finn will take you into the recovery room. We won't do any more tonight if you choose that. Do you understand?"

Blaine's hips shifted, so slightly. Finn couldn't see from where he sat if Blaine was aroused by Carl's words, but based on previous experience, he had a guess about that. "Yes sir."

Carl's hand went back to Blaine's shoulder. "Take a deep breath, and let it out."

As Blaine obeyed, Carl brought his left hand down, the one holding the flogger, and it landed on his skin. The sound was so loud, Finn thought for a moment Carl had dropped something. But the rug on the floor was thick, and the only flat surface was the empty coffee table. There was a two second pause after the impact, and then Blaine let out a cry of shock and absolute need.

"That's it, boy," Carl said, his smile grim and patient, and the flogger came down again. Blaine's skin was immediately red and marked with lines where the tails dug into the flesh of his buttocks and hips. Carl's aim was focused, and Finn knew the sensation, compounded, would be intense. _Just what Blaine needs._ He zeroed in on Blaine's harsh breathing, his moans, the movement of his hips. "You'll want to stay still, now."

Blaine's movement ceased, apart from the heaving of his back. The next five blows landed on his left cheek, each one producing as loud a noise as the first, but Blaine still didn't move. Carl's eyebrows went up, and the smile he gave Finn was like the sweetest words of praise. Finn smiled back, wide and breathless. _My boy. Mine._

"Finn," Carl said. He held out the flogger, handle first. "Come here."

Finn stood before he realized why he was doing it. By the time he had the handle in his hand, Carl had stepped aside, and Finn was standing before Blaine, alone. He looked down at the flogger, as though he wasn't sure what it was for.

Carl reached up with one hand, curled it around Finn's neck and pulled him into a fierce kiss. Finn couldn't help the sound that slipped from between his lips, and Blaine made an echoing sound, equally unbidden. When Carl let him go, he held his gaze.

"This is your task," Carl whispered. "Your boy. He needs to feel your hand on him now."

"Yes, sir," Finn whispered back.

"He's going to try to hold out, for you," he went on. "Don't let him. You have to take him down. He's not permitted to resist. I'll talk him down for you, until you're ready to handle him."

Finn could feel the weight of the responsibility, somehow greater than any he'd ever felt before, even with Puck - but there was nothing scary about it, nothing more than precisely, exactly what he needed. "Yes," he said again, and held the red handle in his hand, feeling the balance. "I'm ready."

Carl stepped back two paces, giving Finn a slow nod that felt more like a bow. Then he crouched down along the wall, close to Blaine's head, which was suspended low between his shoulders. "Keep breathing, boy," he murmured, and Blaine's back rose and fell, once.

"That's my good boy," Finn said. Blaine took another breath, this one more ragged.

"Finn," he said, his voice cracked and broken.

"I'm right here," he soothed. He gave Blaine's red bottom an experimental swing of the flogger, and it landed with a gentle slap. Blaine barely moved, but his breathing intensified, becoming erratic.

"He doesn't need you to be good, boy," Carl continued in his intense, quiet voice. "He doesn't need you to be quiet. He just needs you to _let go._"

"I - can't," Blaine whimpered. All the time, Finn was getting the feel for the new tool. He knew each blow would be more powerful.

Carl's words were just a breath on Blaine's cheek. "You can, and you will. Either of your own accord - or the flogger will rip it out of you. You need to open yourself up to it, give in to it. Don't be afraid of the pain."

Blaine shook his head slowly, buoyed by the cushion of submission. "I'm _not _afraid of the pain."

Finn felt a stab of desire at that, a raging hot need to _make him afraid,_ but he took the impulse and stuffed it down, back inside himself where it belonged. _That's definitely not what Blaine needs,_ he thought angrily, and his next swing landed a little off center. He saw Blaine wince, but he didn't make one complaint.

"Not afraid?" Carl said. He stroked a hand up Blaine's spine, stopping short of touching the collar around his neck.

"No," he said, low and tense. "Not afraid. I need it. It keeps me... out of the dark places. Keeps me out here, where it's real." He shook under the impact, but he still didn't let himself move, not to twist away or to thrust into the blow.

"But you're not letting yourself _be_ real," Carl countered. "You're trying to handle it. That's not what you have to do here."

"I can't," Blaine said again, and this time it sounded a little more panicked. "You don't know what you're asking me to _do."_

"Oh, but I do, little boy." Carl's gaze flickered up to Finn. He held up a hand, pausing the motion of the flogger, and touched Blaine in the small of the back. "Here. Let it swing freely, looping around, like this." He made a loose motion with his wrist; to Finn's single-track mind, it looked entirely familiar, and had nothing to do with a flogger at all. He colored and stared at the floor for a moment, regaining his focus. _Blaine. This is about Blaine. You're not the one under his hand, today. You're giving him what he needs._ He tried the motion that Carl had suggested, his wrist rotating in small circles, and the handle of the flogger carried the tails around. The impact was less, but Finn could feel his greater focus and quicker pace changing Blaine's energy. Carl nodded in approval.

Then he turned back to Blaine, standing there, tense and trembling against the wall, pushing like he was trying to hold the whole damn thing up with the force of his body. "I do, because every day, young men and women ask me for this, in my office, and I help them achieve it. You're no different. You can do this."

Blaine shook his head. "How?"

"Everything you know... put each piece down, like you're taking off your clothes. Your fears - abandon them. You're not responsible for them here. Your self-consciousness... your petty anxieties... strip them away, leave them here. Each piece you remove takes you closer to yourself, your core."

The rhythmic impact of the flogger, marking the sensitive skin of his back, seemed to be causing Blaine more agitation than anything else. Finn didn't think he'd increased the pressure any, but suddenly Blaine cried out, "God... oh, _god..."_

"Yes, boy," Carl urged, his voice becoming more insistent, beckoning Finn to continue. "Everything you have - you don't need it here. Lay it at my feet. I demand it. It's mine. Your voice, your desire, your very name. _Let it go."_

Blaine collapsed forward against the stone wall, his cheek crushing into the smooth surface, and Carl seemed to be expecting it, because he was there to catch Blaine as his knees buckled. The sobs tore out of him like they were bursting through seams in his skin, profound, raging cries that sounded like Blaine was being tortured, instead of being held in Carl's strong arms. Carl ran a hand over his hair, cradling him, making wordless shushing noises. Eventually his eyes met Finn's again.

"Come on," he said, nodding his head at Blaine's prone form. "He needs you for this, too."

Finn crouched down on the floor, kneeling as close to Blaine's body as he could, and gathered him into his arms. He felt so _small,_ so helpless, and as Finn felt the sobs racking him, so lost. "You did so well," he whispered, pressing his face into Blaine's neck, clutching Blaine's head to his chest.

"It's not over," Carl cautioned him. "He's not going to be able to answer you. No questions, unless they're simple, direct, yes or no." He laid hands on his neck, his wrist, quick and efficient. "Keep him warm. I'll get a blanket."

Finn wasn't sure how to do that, exactly, but the fireplace seemed like a good place to start. He lifted Blaine onto his lap and seated himself in front of the fire, which had diminished, and reached out for the poker with his free hand. A few nudges at the coals and logs had it crackling and blazing up again. Finn cradled Blaine in the crook of his arm. "Such a good boy," he murmured, feeling the words land on his skin and make him tremble.

Carl was there, beside them, and draped a quilt around Blaine's shoulders. Finn was already as hot as the fire, himself, but he could tell that Blaine's skin was chilled, and he could tolerate a little sweat.

"What should I do?" Blaine mumbled, trying to lift his head, but Carl kept him still with one firm hand.

"Lie still," he ordered, and Blaine went limp against Finn. Somehow this hit him more powerfully than just about anything else that had happened that evening, and Finn clutched Blaine tighter, rocking him slightly across his body. Carl leaned in, one arm around Blaine from the other side, and pressed his lips to Finn's, once. "Don't do anything. Your only task is to do as you're told."

Finn could feel Blaine's suspicion, his fear beginning to awaken, and he quickly gripped Blaine's arm, saying, "Stop that." And just like that, Blaine was docile, his hand lightly stroking Finn's stomach in a far too familiar way. His face wasn't quite peaceful, though, and that wasn't good, it wasn't enough. Blaine needed to let that go, too.

"You're still not sure this is okay," Finn suggested. After a moment, Blaine shook his head, the sweat from his curls leaving a random pattern on Finn's shirt. Finn sighed. "What are you afraid of?"

To his surprise, Blaine answered promptly. "Being seen."

Finn paused. "You - don't want me to see you?"

He shook his head again, burrowing in deeper. "You'll see who I am."

"And... who's that?"

Blaine's sigh was sad and defeated. "Nothing special."

Finn waited for more, but that appeared to be the answer. "You think you're nothing special?" At Blaine's nod, Finn tried really hard, but in the end, he couldn't quite manage it. He laughed. "Blaine..." he began, but Carl cut him off with a frown.

"You're just what you were made to be," Carl said, silky and smooth. "A vessel, to be filled by others' desire. You're ready to become exactly what we demand you become. Perfectly open... perfectly giving."

"Yes," Blaine sighed. "Yes... please."

Carl rocked back on his heels and stood, snapping his fingers and pointing at the floor. "Kneel... right here."

Blaine didn't hesitate, but he moved a little slowly out of Finn's lap, slow enough to earn him a warning swat from Carl, which Finn knew from experience was not particularly forgiving. Blaine's response was muted, but he did speed up his movements after that. By the time he was in position, Carl had already reached into the second drawer down in his desk for the next set of tools.

Finn licked dry lips. This was new territory for him and Blaine. He wasn't particularly big on the props to begin with, preferring to use his hands and voice over other equipment, but he and Blaine especially hadn't done much in regards to restraints. Blaine liked being held tight, just as Kurt did, and if Finn let himself think about it - which he _didn't -_ he would have guessed Blaine liked being handcuffed or tied up, too. But...

"Carl," he whispered desperately. "I can't."

Carl held out the cuffs to Finn, and tilted his head, directing his gaze into Finn's rapidly beating heart. "You can."

"No," he insisted. "It's - too much. I can't, not without..."

Carl wasn't letting him off the hook here. He raised one eyebrow, and glanced down at Blaine, kneeling, his eyes on the floor. "Without what, Finn?"

"Without _sex,"_ Finn hissed. "It's not... I can't do this to Blaine. He doesn't want that from _me."_

Carl held his gaze, firm and oddly calming. "I know you're not used to this _not_ being sexual, but Blaine needs this. _This_," he said, low and hard, pressing the cuffs into Finn's hands. "Not sex, Finn. He just needs to let go, to go deeper than he can alone. He's still holding back on you. You can do this."

Finn shook his head, and tried to hand the cuffs back to Carl with shaking hands. Carl just looked at him sternly.

"It's time for you to take care of your boy, Finn. I'll help you."

Finn closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and nodded once. Carl kissed him softly, once, and lowered his voice to a whisper in Finn's ear. "That's _my_ good boy. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," Finn gasped, and he had to blink to clear his vision when Carl moved away and he opened his eyes.

Blaine was . . . _beautiful_, in the firelight, head bowed and chest rising gently with every breath. For a moment, Finn could scarcely believe Blaine was there, kneeling on Carl's lush maroon rug, for him. _He's waiting for __**me**__, _Finn thought. _I'm the only one who can give him this. I'm the only one he __**trusts**__ to give him this._

He unbuckled the leather tongue from each cuff and spread them open, then took Blaine's connected wrists and gently separated them. Blaine blinked up at him, as though he were waking from a dream. He opened his mouth, but no sound issued forth. Finn moved steadily, not pausing, and it only took a few tries for his fumbling fingers to manage to fasten the buckles around Blaine's wrists.

"Hook them together for now," Carl suggested, pulling the blanket off Blaine's shoulders. Finn did so, and when he was done, Blaine's hands were connected at the wrists - for real, this time. Blaine gazed at them for a long moment. Then he tugged on the cuffs, feeling the metal resistance, and - his expression was remarkable. He _chuckled,_ and his smile was wide and grateful.

"Thank you," he said, brown eyes wide and liquid under long dark lashes. Finn gritted his teeth.

"You're -" he muttered, then caught Carl's quick head shake, and stopped himself, amending his words to, "You're all right."

"Yes," Blaine sighed. He held Finn's gaze, and whispered _please_, and the edge of desperation in his voice almost broke Finn.

Carl drew him to his feet without a word, and Blaine followed equally silently. They took the few steps across the room to the couch, and Carl pressed him down to his knees again, gently encouraging his head to rest on the cushion. Then he unfastened Blaine's hands, and before Blaine could even react, Carl had Blaine's hands behind his back, clipping them back together with the carabiners, forming an upward-pointing triangle with his arms and wrists and the angle of his shoulder blades.

"You'll keep your head there on the couch, boy," Carl said, one hand pressing on the flat of his back. "If you need anything, you'll tell me right away, but otherwise, you're not to speak. Nod if you understand."

Blaine's head bobbed up and down, his eyes heavy-lidded and somewhat glassy. Finn's hands itched to brush his hair out of his face. Then he thought, somewhat irritated, _why not? Why can't I do that?_ He moved to sit beside Blaine, and with one hand he ran his fingers through Blaine's unruly curls. _Not sexual,_ he told himself firmly, averting his eyes as he skimmed his hand over the triangle of Blaine's bare back, his arms in restraints. _Not... god._

Carl caught his eyes and nodded slowly. "You know what to do, Finn. You know what your boy needs now, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," Finn replied, because he _did_ know. He could feel the energy in his hand, and guessed from the way things had always been between them that Blaine could feel it, too. He pressed his hand into the small of Blaine's back, and he almost shuddered when Blaine let out a low moan. He knew it wasn't going to take a lot of contact at all; Blaine's skin was surely incredibly tender from the flogger, and Finn didn't want to hurt him, but Carl was right. Blaine _needed_ to give up the last of his fear.

Finn leaned over and settled his mouth next to Blaine's ear. "You've done so well, but we're not done yet. You need this. You need to let everything else go." He lifted his hand away and Blaine shifted, seeking contact. Finn kept close to his ear, kept talking. "Don't move." He dropped his hand in the gentlest _smack_ he could manage, just enough for the sensation of it to ripple through Blaine's body.

Blaine groaned, and Finn let another blow land. "That's it. I'm here. I've got you. Give it to me, Blaine. Let me take it."

He kept this up, the gentle impact of his hand, the constant murmuring into Blaine's ear. Sometimes it felt like nonsense, but Finn thought he could trust his instincts, because it seemed to be just what Blaine needed. Before long he was crying silent tears, and Finn felt a tremor begin in Blaine's body that built higher and higher, until he was shaking all over. Finn thought for a moment that Blaine had finally completely let go - until he heard Blaine chanting over and over _oh, god, I'm sorry so sorry so sorry_ and Finn realized that Blaine was shuddering with _release,_ and that he had come, helplessly, against the front of the couch.

"Hold him," Carl hissed, his hands pressing firmly on Finn's back. "He thinks he did something wrong. You have to tell him it's all right."

Blaine buried his head into Finn's chest for the second time that night, but this time Finn was surrounded by Blaine's scent. The smell of him was everywhere, on the couch, Blaine's stomach and legs, on and for a moment, he couldn't do anything but steel himself, resisting the overwhelming urge to take Blaine in his mouth and - he wrenched a gasp out, and Carl growled, "_Finn._ Pull it together."

"Yes... sir." He breathed through his mouth, trying not to listen to the urges of his body, to focus as best as he could on the facts. _Blaine's response... it was a natural reaction to stimulation. He's scared, and he thinks he did something wrong._

Finn wrapped his arms around Blaine. "It's okay, b- Blaine. It's okay. You're just fine. You did so well. I'm not mad, you're okay. You're so good, _so good_, and I'm so proud of - _oh_."

Because Blaine had crawled right into his _lap,_ and even as he was feeling Blaine's warm, sticky thighs pressing against his pant leg, Finn was frantically thinking of the mailman, the mailman, _god, the mailman..._ he moaned in desperate need.

"Finn..." Carl said gently. Finn's eyes found his over Blaine's head; he could feel his heartbeat accelerating wildly.

"Sir," he blurted, but Carl shook his head, not releasing his gaze. He was _so_ kind, Finn could hardly stand it. Finn's cheeks burned with mortification.

"That's about enough of that," Carl murmured. "You're human, Finn, and you're _seventeen_ - and believe me, not a man in his right mind could watch the two of you together and not be aroused. Don't blame yourself."

"He's - I'm - " Finn gulped as Blaine shifted in Finn's lap, tucking himself more firmly against Finn's stomach, directly against his rock-hard erection. "I think I'm -"

"I know, sweet boy," said Carl, still calm, "and if you do, it'll be okay." He didn't reach out to touch Finn, he just waited there, crouched on the floor next to Blaine. "You're giving him what he needs, and you're not doing _anything_ inappropriate. Does Blaine look uncomfortable?"

It was the first time Carl had said Blaine's name since the session had begun, and to hear it on his lips, with Finn in _this_ state, was a little disconcerting, but he forced himself to focus on the boy snuggled in his lap, as floppy and messy as a Great Dane puppy. Finn laughed nervously in spite of himself. "No. Not uncomfortable."

"Precisely. So... Finn. Look at me." Finn's eyes shot back to Carl's. "You've been such a good boy."

Finn moaned again, at those words from Carl, which never failed to send shivers down his spine - and which now were unavoidably linked to his throbbing cock, currently wedged against Blaine's bare ass. "God," he said, closing his eyes, but Carl's Voice called him back, his eyes forced open to meet his.

"_Finn._ You're _my_ good boy..." His focus sharpened to blue, glittering points. "And I... am ordering you... to _let go."_

_No,_ Finn wanted to cry, but there was no way he was going to go against an order from Carl. He let his eyes fall closed again, and his own hips bucked forward once, twice, and _oh, oh, Blaine, this was not happening._

Carl reached forward and gripped Finn's hand, and it was a lucky thing, too, because otherwise Finn would have grabbed at anything within grabbing distance to rut against while he rode out his mindbogglingly _massive_ orgasm. And that anything would likely have been Blaine's hips, had Carl's other hand not given him an alternative. Finn struggled to contain the movements of his traitorous pelvis. It was lucky that Blaine seemed too far down in the soft velvet morass of submission to care what was going on around him. _I'm sorry, Blaine,_ he could only think, and pray somehow Blaine would hear him. _I'm so sorry._

He panted and collapsed, twitching, against Blaine's sweet warm weight.

"It's all right," he heard Carl saying, and it was the strangest echo of five minutes before, with different people playing the same parts. "There's nothing wrong here. You're fine, my boy."

When they could move again, Finn helped Blaine stand and led him across the hall to the recovery room. It wasn't as pleasant as the light-filled chambers upstairs, but it was closer, and Blaine was nearly asleep already. Finn cleaned him up with a warm washcloth, pulled a pair of soft sweatpants on over his legs and his thoroughly warmed and well-striped bottom, and laid him on his side under the cotton blanket.

"I like the quilt," Blaine murmured, and Finn let him keep that - as though he could have pried it out of his hands anyway. He watched as Blaine curled around the hand-stitched panels, his eyes closed and his breathing evening out, and turned down the light before pressing a kiss to his temple and closing the door behind him.

And suddenly Carl was _there,_ he was right _there, _his hands roving over Finn's body and pulling him back into the office and locking the door behind him, and Carl's eyes were hungry and he was _oh, _his hands were stripping off Finn's sticky shorts without any kind of permission at all.

"Let me be proud of my boy," he demanded, his hands tugging Finn's shirt off before bringing him before the fire. It was nearly out now, but that wasn't important; they were both of them warm past sweaty. Under the pressure of Carl's arm, Finn dropped to his knees, naked on the rug, not in any kind of formal pose, but simply desperate to be _below _Carl. He stared up at him with a sense of futile despair.

"God, how can you say that?" he moaned. "I was - that was a complete mess, the way I handled it... I can't believe I -"

"No, Finn," Carl said, gripping his shoulders. "No. You did _so_ well. It's not easy. Whatever you thought it was going to be, it's not ever going to be easy to give that. You're part of it - it comes through you, and you have to just ride it out. And you did." He touched Finn's face with both hands and bent down, kissing him hard. "You gave him what he needed."

"He didn't need _that,"_ Finn protested, trying to turn his face away, but Carl wouldn't let him.

"It didn't hurt him. That's what I'm saying. You're _allowed_ to have feelings."

"Not _those_ feelings. Not about _Blaine."_ The shame overwhelmed him then, and he crumpled forward, burying his face in his hands. "God, what am I going to do?"

Carl was silent for a moment. Then Finn felt his hands, strong and sure, stroking across his bowed back, and Carl's gentle sigh. "You're certain he didn't want it?"

"It's what he told me, again and again." Finn wasn't even sure how to answer that question anymore, not after what happened at the concert, but... "Yeah."

Carl's lips touched his neck, just behind his ear. "All right," he murmured. "Here's what you're going to do."

* * *

Blaine had been okay, really, through all of it. Trailing Finn into Carl's office, filling out all this paperwork with releases and personal information and a _safeword_. He'd been a little nervous, of course, but there were days he was even still nervous about Finn _spanking_ him, so he just figured he'd roll with it, and things would be okay in the end.

Things were _always_ okay in the end after Finn took care of him, after all. And he had no reason to expect things would be any different with Carl.

Blaine had even been okay when Finn pulled his collar out of the bag. That had been a surprise, but not an unwelcome one at all, and Blaine felt himself slip away just a little bit when Finn fastened the leather around his neck, like Finn had taken on a little piece of Blaine, was holding him protected in his hands. It was . . . different, but also good. Blaine didn't feel quite so heavy, then, with Finn keeping that part of him.

He tried to keep track of the part of him that belonged to Finn when Carl first started giving him orders, but he quickly got lost in the haze of Carl's voice and how simply _good_ it felt to be able to follow Carl's instructions and know that he was doing everything right.

Until Carl asked him what he needed, and Blaine hadn't been able to answer. Not because he didn't _know, _but because he couldn't make the crazy jumble in his head make sense in words. It was just this mess of feelings and certainties that defied explanation. But when Carl told him that he needed someone to push him _further than he'd ever been before_, something clicked deep inside of him, and he suddenly craved that like nothing he'd ever wanted before.

He _had_ to know what it felt like.

The flogger stung, sharp and hard and _so good_. Blaine had thought that the pain would be scary, but it kept him startlingly aware and out of the places in his head that he hated. The places that boxing and music and _Finn_ also helped him stay away from.

He felt satisfied, pleased with himself, for being able to withstand the blows, first from Carl and then from Finn. _He could do this_.

Except . . .

Carl started asking him to let things go, and _god_, Blaine was _so bad_ at that. Because letting it go meant that there was something wrong in the first place, and Blaine was _so good_ at hiding the bad things, the problems, the things that needed fixing. The parts of _him_ that needed fixing.

He couldn't let go, because letting go would mean admitting that there was something _wrong with him_.

And Andersons didn't have things wrong with them.

He tried to shut the bad things away, focusing instead on the sound of Carl's voice and the motion of the flogger across his lower back, and the beating of his heart. The white echo of his breath in his ears. Nothing but himself, Carl, Finn. Leather against flesh and-

He felt the first piece of himself fall, and then all the things he loved and hated and was so so afraid of were just dropping at his feet in a messy pile, and he was gasping and crying and _fallingfallingfalling_, and he was scared and sad and angry and all the things his father had never let him feel, and when he started to come back to himself breath by tiny breath, he felt . . .

Ashamed.

Embarrassed.

And so terrified of what Finn would see if he looked too close. Finn, who still held a piece of Blaine, safe and protected in his hands. Finn, who gave Blaine so much.

_I'm not enough for you_, Blaine thought, and struggled to get out from the cocoon of Finn's arms and the heavy quilt that Carl had laid over his body. Why was he so _cold_?

But then came the word, the first command: "Lie still." And he felt his body respond, without any conscious thought. He was pressed against Finn, snug and safe. It was a great relief, but it woke up another fear inside him, the one that said _if I let it all go, I'll just be me, and he'll realize how much of a nothing I am. _

Finn's grasp, and his immediate response of "Stop that," put the fear back to sleep, but it was still lurking there. The less he did, the more he wondered when Finn was going to get bored and send him home. He leaned his head on Finn's chest.

He couldn't _not_ answer Finn's questions, and he couldn't be anything but honest. Yes, he was afraid. No, he didn't want Finn to see him. Because there wasn't anything to see. He heard Finn's laugh, and that hurt a little, but Carl's voice covered it over and gave him something else to be. _An empty vessel. Perfectly open. _That was... compelling.

"Yes," he said hopefully. Could he really have that? Could he become... whatever someone else wanted him to be? Was it possible he could satisfy someone else so completely?

He followed the orders given, and even when he felt the swat for moving too slowly, he didn't feel bad about that, because he knew he could do better, that it was nothing more than what he needed to improve. Waiting wasn't any effort; time passed without notice in this place of calm and quiet, where no one was expecting anything of him other than what was ordered. It was so _easy _to give in.

When he felt Finn's hands on his wrists, he wasn't sure what was happening at first, but there was a little irritation on his skin, and that brought him out of his perfect blissful state, just enough for him to meet Finn's eyes, questioning. Finn looked like he might be about to cry, and Blaine thought he might ask what was wrong, but no one had told him to worry about it, so he wasn't going to.

Then he looked down at his hands and realized he was handcuffed, his wrists hooked together. It was a little surreal, even in the midst of this whole bizarre experience, and for a moment he wasn't sure what to do with them. But then he pulled on them, just a little, and even as he did, he thought _he didn't tell me to do that. _It wasn't that he was _trying_ to get out of them, he just needed to know if he _could_.

And he couldn't.

The wave of relief that washed over him was overwhelming, and even as he felt himself rocked by it, he giggled and blinked up at Finn. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it. _This is exactly what I needed. How did you know?_

Finn's murmured response was almost irrelevant, but Blaine wanted to _show_ him his gratitude, and he watched and listened as carefully as he could, following his directions to the letter. _I can be still. Please, put my hands wherever you want them. I can kneel right here, watch me. _He was a little surprised by how much he _wanted_ to be seen like this, wanted Finn to see what a good boy he could be.

Finn's hand was familiar at the small of his back, and it felt grounding to Blaine. He _knew_ what was going to happen. He could feel the current of energy from Finn's hand into his body; it felt like it _always_ did before a spanking, and even though Blaine was sore he absolutely _wanted_ Finn's hand on him. When Finn moved his hand away, Blaine tried to follow it because he _needed_ it, needed to know that he was _Finn's boy_, and he was always surest of that when Finn was spanking him.

Finn didn't spank him hard, but the sensation of his hand against Blaine's tender flesh, combined with all of the things Finn was whispering in his ear, was almost too intense. The energy rolled through Blaine, starting at his toes and curling in waves all the way up to his head. It was just like Carl had said; Finn was taking him further than he'd been before, and it was so good, _too good_.

It was _everything_, and Blaine just lost himself to the haze of almost-pleasure underneath the pain. He let it surround him, hold him up, and he wasn't really aware of anything.

Until he _was_ aware. Until the energy that had pooled deep in his abdomen was gone and he was shuddering and suddenly, sharply _sated._

_Oh, god,_ he thought. _I'm sorry, so sorry_. It wasn't until he was cocooned in Finn's arms that he realized he'd been chanting those words out loud, and that Finn was both trying to talk him out of his panic _and_ ragingly hard against his leg.

_This was so not how things were supposed to happen. _His own orgasm had been embarrassing enough. He'd told Finn over and over again that he didn't want anything more, but his body kept betraying him, and now _Finn _was . . . _God._ Blaine _really_ wanted to do something, to help or get out of Finn's way, but he was limp and fuzzy, and his wrists were still handcuffed behind his back. He couldn't do anything but just sort of _be_ there, draped over Finn like a blanket.

He was really only half-conscious of Finn and Carl speaking in hushed whispers, and of the way Finn was holding his body as still as he could even as he was trembling and gasping. _I could help_, Blaine thought, but he knew he'd be crossing the very line he'd demanded Finn establish.

He felt helpless; things felt confusing and complicated, but he couldn't seem to get a real handle on anything, especially not once Finn was still and quiet and Carl was helping them both to their feet. Finn led him into a different room, then, and cleaned him up carefully. The washcloth was soft, and the water was warm, but it still stung, and Blaine felt himself wince a little at the contact even though Finn was so careful. He let Finn dress him, moving Blaine's limbs for him like he was a doll, or a tiny infant, and by the time Finn was covering him with a blanket Blaine was just about asleep. He held tight to the quilt, mumbled about wanting to keep it because the weight of it made him feel connected to something other than the ghostly lightness of his body. Finn didn't fight him, just pressed a kiss to the side of his head and moved softly out of the door.

Blaine really had been almost asleep, but he suddenly felt Finn's absence like a shock, and he was lonely and scared and he _needed_ Finn. But he didn't know where he'd gone, or _why_, so he swallowed around the tears he couldn't believe he still had left to cry, and clutched the quilt tighter, sniffing and wishing for a tissue.

Time was still meaningless, especially in the dim room, but Blaine had plenty of moments to panic before the door quietly opened and a figure slipped in, dressed in sweatpants identical to the ones he wore and holding a glass of water. "Blaine," Finn said softly.

"I'm here," Blaine said as calmly as he could, trying not to let him hear the tears, but he should have known Finn would be able to tell right away.

"Oh," he said unhappily, and set the glass down on the floor next to the bed. He sat on the edge, not touching Blaine in any way, watching him, just watching. "You... I shouldn't have left."

"I'm okay," Blaine assured him. "Really, it's fine. You have other things to do."

Finn stared at him, then shook his head a little. "No," he said softly. "I really don't. I'm... I wanted to come in here to tell you that I'm sorry about what happened, and -"

"What?" Blaine interrupted, sitting up. He winced as he leaned on his sore behind. "Finn, no."

"- and I'm not going to let it happen again," he went on, holding up a hand. "It's not fair to you, when you don't... I'm not going to do that to you. It's just not fair to you, or me."

Blaine tried to listen to Finn's words, but as soon as he heard _I'm not going to do that to you,_ he felt the panic rise inside him, and he didn't have anything he could say other than "No... please, Finn... please, please."

"Hey... Blaine." Finn moved in a little, hesitating, then sighed and took him in his hands, holding him at arm's length. "What is it? What did I say?"

"You're going to leave," Blaine whispered. "You - you don't want this with me anymore."

"I - what? Blaine, no. That's not what I... god, no. I didn't mean that." Finn tried to pull him in, close, but Blaine winced again, and Finn stopped. "Okay... come on, lay back down. Let me... here. On the pillow, all right?"

Blaine was still shaking, and he let Finn pull him close, to wrap around him from behind, carefully putting space between them at the hip to protect his bruised bottom. "Shhh," Finn said, his arms warm and heavy around Blaine's body. Blaine let his eyes close again, feeling the heat and pressure of Finn's long frame.

"You're not going to leave?" he begged.

"No, b-Blaine. I'm not going to leave. Whatever you need, you've got it. I'm right here."

"Just stay. Stay here." Blaine sighed as Finn's arms held him even tighter. It never ceased to amaze him, the way that Finn always knew what he needed, what would make his brain go silent and his body still. He kept his eyes closed, and listened to Finn's breathing even out into soft and steady puffs on the back of his neck.

Later, Blaine wouldn't remember falling asleep, either.

* * *

Carl barely looked up when Angela came in to sweep out the fireplace.

"Sir?"

"Mmmm," he said, flipping a page over.

"It's getting kind of late. Do you want me to wake up Finn and Blaine and get them home? I could call a taxi, if you don't want them driving."

He'd already looked at the clock four times in the last five minutes; he didn't need to look again, but he did anyway. "They're fine where they are. I'd rather not disturb them. I'll call Carole myself if I have to."

She was silent for another minute, but she paused as she passed the desk. "Forgive my forwardness, but... you should take a break, sir."

Carl sighed. "What tells you that, Angela?"

Her hand touched his on top of the pile of papers. "You're holding that upside down, sir."

He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his forehead and grimacing. "Okay. I'm... maybe I _should _go wake them up."

"He's not _your_ boy, sir," she murmured. Carl glared at her, but she just gazed back at him, and he nodded in defeat.

"I've tried everything I could think of, short of spraying them with pheromones and locking them in a room with stacks of porn, to get them to acknowledge what's going on here." He gestured at the closed hallway door. "Blaine's too scared, and Finn's not budging. I don't understand him."

"Yes, you do," Angela said. She stood close, but didn't touch him or say anything else.

Carl knew that she was right. Sometimes he hated that she knew him so well. He sighed, and scrubbed at his face with his palm. "He's trying to be good, to do what Blaine is telling him he wants. The problem is that he's scared, too, so he can't see the truth of things."

"You can't push this, sir." Angela's voice was soft, her body still, and her gaze solid on the closed door.

"_You're_ pushing it," he snapped, and she bowed her head, moving into the position any contrite sub would take around him, when they heard that tone. It was just safer. He stood and stalked back and forth across the office, hands on his hips. "If Finn can't see what's happening right in front of him, with a boy he so _obviously_ cares about, how can I trust him with R- " He cut himself off with a growl of frustration. "Fuck."

"You're telling me you don't trust him, sir?" Angela wasn't questioning him, just wondering, in her mild way, like the voice of his conscience. It did sound an awful lot like her, in his head.

"No." He sighed. "No. Of course not. There's no one I'd trust more to - no." He reached out and straightened the picture on the wall, a framed landscape of the grounds at Tessera, taken from the roof of one of the outbuildings. He'd woken up early to set up the shot, looking for just the right kind of morning light to illuminate the trees outside the stables. In the picture, there was an empty field where the greenhouses stood now. _Seventeen years ago, _he thought. A lot could happen in seventeen years.

"Maybe they need - some time apart." He tilted his head, staring at the picture. Funny how things could change, when you looked at them a little differently. "A little perspective."

"Finn and Rachel, sir?"

"No, Finn and Blaine. I mean, sure. Them, too." He wasn't even sure what to do about Finn and Rachel, but he wasn't going to interfere. There was nothing he could say, anyway, without breaking his agreement. "Finn's going away next weekend to his family reunion. They could benefit from some time to think about things. People miss each other, when they're apart. Feelings clarify. Yes." He gave a definitive nod. "That's just what they need."

* * *

_Childhood living  
__Is easy to do  
__The things you wanted  
__Well I bought them for you_

_And graceless lady  
__You know who I am  
__You know I can't let you  
__Ah slide through my hands_

_Wild horses  
__Couldn't drag me away  
__Wild, wild horses  
__Couldn't drag me away_

_I watched you suffer  
__A dull aching pain  
__Now you've decided  
__To show me the same_

_No sweeping exits  
__Or offstage lines  
__Can make me feel bitter  
__Or treat you unkind_

_Wild horses  
__Couldn't drag me away  
__Wild, wild horses  
__Couldn't drag me away_

_I know I dreamed you  
__A sin and a lie  
__I have my freedom  
__But I don't have much time_

_Faith has been broken  
__Tears must be cried  
__Come on let's do some living  
__After we die_

_Wild horses  
__Couldn't drag me away  
__Wild, wild horses  
__We'll ride them someday_

- "Wild Horses," The Rolling Stones


End file.
